Despair
by SgtMac
Summary: After losing his family to a curse a decade ago, Henry has nearly given up until one night when he finds Regina working as a waitress. Problem is, Regina doesn't remember who she is. Determined to help her remember, he begins a perilous mission which will see Regina and Emma reunited and their lives endangered as each of them is forced face their demons in order to survive. SQ. S7.
1. Prologue

**_A/N:_** _This is going to be my 7th season spec fic (including a cursed Regina, a really messed up Emma, a missing Storybrooke, adult Henry, his daughter Lucy and lots of otherwise insanity, trauma and angst). So yeah, it's going to get very very very dark._

 _Appropriate warnings will be placed before each section (for instance, Hook is in this chapter), but this won't be for the faint of heart so if that's you, you might want to skip this one. The story is pretty much canon until the end of S6 so CS did get married (which means, yes, Hook is here...until he's not, and that will happen far quicker than you might think)._ ** _  
_**

This is a SQ story, but it's...super slow burn so please be patient.

 ** _This story will contain three timelines, but ONLY this prologue will feature all of them in one. The first half of the story will contain Before and Then and the second will address the Now._**

 _ **Now** : Current_

 _ **Before** : Past tense, ten years ago, when shit went bad._

 _ **Then** : Ten years after the before but just before the Now._

 _Enjoy and please let me know what you think._

* * *

-Prologue-

### ###

 _ **now.**_

The tires squeal loudly, overheated rubber melting and shearing away as the orange Mustang comes to a dramatic spinning stop just a few inches over the faded yellow town line. Emma doesn't have time for the relief of realizing where they are – where they've finally gotten back to after all this time - because there are sirens in the distance, their squeals getting louder by the moment as they draw closer and closer to the "dangerous fugitives" whom they've chased halfway across the great state of Maine.

Emma almost wants to laugh at that, but now's hardly the time for such mirth.

Not with all the shouting going on inside the car she's in.

And not with Regina currently in the middle of what appears to be a sudden and violent seizure.

A seizure, which had started, the moment they'd crossed into a town which had originally been created by anger and vengeance; and had ended up being nourished by magic and hope. Both which are concepts which the damaged side of Emma Swan's mind knows better than to believe in. She's been through too much at this point, seen too much, and had too much ripped away to still believe in miracles of any kind. She knows better, and pretending she doesn't is masochistic.

And yet here they all are anyway: two damaged mothers who have never quite learned their lessons as well as they should have, a lost son who stumbled from his path and became a father and his daughter – the child who had taken his place as the one with the heart of the truest believer - who adores him. They have no excuse for believing; and yet, they're in this together, each of them caught in a wave of cruel madness that none of them have ever really deserved.

"Mom, what do I do?" Henry calls out, the words coming out as a choked plea. He's spread out uncomfortably against bucket-seats, his arms wrapped around Regina as she shudders violently against him, his fingers clutching at the garish pastel blue hospital robe that she's still wearing.

With her senses returning to her, Emma shoves the door of the car open and nearly falls out of it; stumbling a few steps before she's spinning around and yanking the seat forward, barking out at Henry, "Don't restrain her!"

"But –"

"The space you're in is too small, and she is beating the shit out of herself; we need to get her onto the ground and just make sure she doesn't do any more harm to herself," Emma insists. Her mind flickers through hours of training she'd taken while doing her bounty hunter job. It's been a very long time since those days, but still the memories and lessons learned stick to her.

Still, she recalls how to make it through situations that seem impossible to imagine surviving.

Surviving has become almost like breathing for her.

For all of them, she thinks grimly.

"Shouldn't we get her to somewhere safe?" Henry asks, glancing back at the road. The sirens are getting so much louder now, at least half a dozen police cars coming at them quickly. "We don't know if they can see this side of the line. What if the rules have changed, Emma?"

"If the rules have changed, and they can cross over, there's nowhere we can hide from them," Emma tells him, her voice heavy, and her fears and doubts laid bare for him in a way that she never would have dared years ago. She softens her voice. "We have to take care of her right now or…none of this matters. We didn't do all this to lose her." She reaches out her arms to him, and he hesitates. Not because he doesn't trust her, but because the woman shaking in his hold has been lost to him for so long, and maybe she's finally home now – maybe they all are.

Almost as if she hears his thoughts, Regina suddenly goes still, her chest rising and falling, her hands opening and closing. There's no rhythm to her movements, though, and even her breathing seems short and choppy, coming out in terrible heaving gasps.

"Mom?" he says, his hand on her face, the clamminess of her skin as unsettling to him as the bruises and cuts that are there. "Tell me you recognize me. Tell me you know who I am."

"Henry," Emma gently admonishes, squeezing his wrist.

"I know," he says softly." He takes a breath to center himself, to remind himself that he's not a young boy anymore, and he can handle anything. "It's gonna be okay, Mom."

She doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him, and he thinks that maybe he feels his heart crack just a little bit.

Because what if...

"Henry, I need you to let me take her," Emma presses. She glances back at the road, her eyes passing over the wide worried ones of Henry's daughter.

So intelligent and thoughtful – so much like her father and both of her grandmothers.

"Dad, let Emma help," Lucy urges, and she doesn't understand any of this – couldn't possibly.

But she's looking over the seat at Emma, a woman she knows is one of her grandmothers, and she's watching father who is clutching the nearly unconscious form of her other grandmother, and it's like he's the sun and the moon to her, and there's nothing that this family can't do.

But there is, and the last few weeks have made their inadequateness disturbingly clear to him.

With the eyes of a terrified child, he looks up at Emma, his eyes wet with pleading and hope;, and though he's twenty-eight years old now, he might as well be just a small boy once again.

So much time has passed, and yet what he needs right in this moment is the same thing he'd needed so many years ago (though he hadn't known it for what it was – not at the time) and that is for one of his mothers to save the other one. He'd thought that she had – that she once again had broken through a wall of resistance and saved them all, but now there's this and…

He's afraid.

 _He's so afraid._

"Henry, please. You know I won't hurt her. You _know_ ," Emma practically begs of him. There's a frantic edge to her voice, like she knows that she has to be very careful here;, but she's terrified because the sirens keep getting louder, and Regina is so very still, and she can see blood on the knuckles of Regina's left hand; proof of the violence of her situation. Not that they need any more proof, Emma thinks sourly, and tries not to dwell on the rest of the evidence which exists.

"Okay," Henry agrees, and then he's releasing his mother, and they're slowly bringing her out of the car; both of them aware as only adults can be that they could be hurting Regina even more by doing this without proper medical assistance. But there isn't time for that, and neither one of them is as sure as they would like to be that there's anything to be found down this road.

They're home – they're across the line and into Storybrooke now, but what does it mean?

What if the only thing on this side of this line are reminders of all of their failures?

What if there's nothing in front of them and only more imprisonment behind them?

"Easy, Henry. Just…take it easy, okay?" Emma says (and even though she's talking about how they're carrying Regina, he thinks she means that for both of them and their many whirling doubts), and it snaps Henry back to the now – to the fact that they're carrying his mother and depositing her atop a blanket which Lucy had retrieved from the trunk. But she's still on the ground, and the ground is so wet and dirty; and even with her mind as damaged as it is by the curse and everything that's happened, she's still a Queen, and Henry wants to laugh at because it's such an absurd thought considering everything that all of them have gone through.

Considering who she was just a few minutes ago.

Considering who she might still be, he fears.

"Mom?" Henry says as he leans over Regina, both hands touching her face. "Can you hear me?"

If Regina can hear him, she shows no sign of it, instead starring up at the late evening sky, her eyes slowly blinking, her breaths continuing to come out in short harsh gasps. Every few seconds or so, her lips move like she's trying to say something, but actual words never come.

"She's not responding," Henry says needlessly. "Emma, why isn't –"

"I don't know, Kid," she cuts in, her tone sharper than she intended it to be. Seeing the way, he pulls back and away from her, a thousand shadows loaded down with guilt and remorse crossing his handsome young face, she gentles her tone. "I don't know," she repeats as she reaches out and squeezes his wrist for a moment before returning her attention to Regina. "Hey, time to come back to us." She slowly leans over Regina, being careful not to startle her (assuming that's even possible in Regina's current state; but so far, Regina's showing no awareness) and places both of her hands on either side of Regina's badly bruised, blankly staring face. She glances up at the sky, noticing how it's started darkening as if nature itself has become aware of a shift.

In balance, in life, perhaps in the whole good versus evil kind of war. Or something like that.

Right now, Emma's less concerned with being righteous and a lot more concerned with the woman in her arms – the one she'd thought Storybrooke would bring back to her and their son.

Now, she's terrified that all she's done is destroy Regina even more than this terrible curse has.

There's an irony to all of this, of course; but it's sick and twisted, and she wants no part of it.

"I need you to look at me, okay?" Emma pleads, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm hoping you remember who you actually are right now. If you do, then you're probably really confused, and I imagine this is all pretty scary, and…I know that you're in a lot of pain, Regina. I know, and I'm so sorry I couldn't stop that from happening. That I couldn't stop any of this from this happening. I tried…I…but I think we're home now. This town wasn't here and now it is so…I think maybe we made it." She feels tears fall down her cheeks, but chooses to ignore them, her voice softening as she continues speaking. "We're home. But I need you to look at me, okay? I need you to tell me that you understand what I'm saying." A smear of blood catches Emma's thumb as she runs it over the planes of Regina's face, and Henry notes the way Emma cringes – Emma's nerve and fight fading as her helpless fear grows.

As she realizes just how helpless she is to do anything besides wait for Regina to respond (they've only been on this side of the town line for about five minutes, but it feels like hours), and realizes that everything they've done – everything she and Henry have done to bring Regina back to them and to get home to the rest of their family – might be meaningless.

And that, God; that's the one thing that she can't even begin to accept as reality.

Just as she can't accept the red and blue lights which are now flashing against the darkness, the sirens becoming obscenely loud as the vehicles rumble towards them. She has no idea if the cops can see them on the other side of the line or if they just see open air ahead of them; but she figures if there's even been a time for needing hope to pay off, it's right here and now.

"Is she leaving us, too?" Lucy asks suddenly, her voice too sad for a child of her age. Henry swallows, and reaches for her, pulling her against his chest, his eyes finding Emma's and a look of shared grief for the easy unaware childhood Lucy will never have.

A child of her age shouldn't be aware of the awful things that she knows about; she shouldn't know about violence and cruelty and unimaginable amounts of pain and heartbreak. She shouldn't know about the terrible things that can be done to a person in the name of hatred, and she shouldn't know that even strong people full of faith can be brought to their knees.

She shouldn't know what it's like to have to hold your parent up while they're collapsing.

But she does know, and as much as he wishes he could protect her from everything, he remembers that his moms had wanted to do the same – both of them had been as upset about him supporting them as he is about Lucy - and they'd all ended up here anyway.

"No, she's not leaving us," Henry promises, amazed by just how quickly Lucy has gotten attached to a woman who can't remember the reason why this child would be drawn to her.

"Then what's wrong with her?" Lucy asks, her fingers clutching her father's shirt

"We need to get her to a hospital. That is, if there's still a hospital in this town; but either way, we need to get her help," Henry babbles on to both his daughter and to Emma. "It was too soon to take her out of the other –" he swallows hard as the world goes just a little bit fuzzy for him.

As he thinks about how they'd come to this frantic desperate place.

Remembering holding his mother in his arms just a few days ago, dirt and grime and rain-water under them.

Blood and broken bones, and glass splintering beneath his boots.

Hands on his face leaving smears of red against his cheeks.

His name whispered.

Behind them, cursing and shouting and the sound of a fist meeting something equally solid.

And then…then, the echoing booming sound of a single gunshot.

Followed by more shouting and him screaming, " _You gotta go. Go!"_

He closes his eyes, and tries to find calm.

Tries to not feel the way his heart is pounding.

Tries to not hear the sirens as they grow deafeningly loud.

"It's not her injuries," Emma says, hands still on Regina's face. They drop down, and check for a pulse, but it's an unnecessary motion because Regina's chest is still rising and falling even as her eyes remain disturbingly unfocused. "This is the curse," she continues, her eyes widening as realization hits her that yes, at least in that much, they had succeeded. "We broke the curse."

"You're sure?"

"The town exists, Henry. Whether it's invisible to them –" she gestures back towards the cops as they crest the last hill before the town line. "I don't know how, but it exists. It didn't exist before, and now it does. That has to mean something. It has to."

Above them, as if response to her words, the clouds continue to darken, cold rain falling now, splashes of it against their faces.

"Okay, okay. But I don't understand," Henry says, his arms still around his daughter even as he looks to his mothers. "We've broken the curse before, and it didn't cause…it didn't do this. Why now?"

The immediate thought which jumps to her mind is that the danger isn't over; they still haven't defeated the person who had sentenced them all to nearly ten years of darkness. They haven't stopped the evil which had torn apart their family and turned their lives into infernos of pain and hurt and so much loneliness. There's still another battle to be fought, she thinks bitterly.

But that's not the reason why Regina is laid out on the cold wet cement, Emma realizes with something of an emotional jolt. One look around as the town continues to come into vibrant color around them, and the sky continues to open up atop them, and she knows the real why.

"Because _she's_ this town," Emma replies, sounding almost breathless as the gravity of the realization hits her. "A dozen dark curses can come and go – they can be cast by a thousand different villains…but Regina built Storybrooke; she's the reason it exists. Maybe she created it for evil in the beginning, but it became more than that. It became real." Emma smiles almost wistfully at the thought of that. "Whatever else, she's its beating heart. It couldn't exist without her, and now it's…back because she remembers it."

"At what cost to her?" Henry asks gravely, no anger there, just the weariness of his journey.

Emma looks down at the mostly still woman who remains cradled in her arms, her dark terrified eyes wide and open and staring upwards at the turbulent sky even as drops of water fall onto all of their faces. A stream of it curls over Regina's overly-defined cheekbones, mixing with the trickling blood coming from an open cut on her face before dripping down to the dirty ground beneath her. "Too much," Emma admits as she leans down and presses her forehead against Regina's, holding it there as water and tears mix together. "Too much cost to all of us."

"But we're still all here," Henry says, and it's almost easy to forget that he's no longer the fourteen-year-old boy whose hope had once been unwavering. It's almost easy to forget that he's a father now, and his list of failures is as long as hers and Regina's.

"I know," Emma assures him. " _We_ know, Kid."

One hand settled lightly against Regina's chest, her palm against the roughness of the hospital robe which Regina had been wearing when they'd broken her out, she smiles slightly when Henry bends down next to her and threads his fingers with hers, both of them against Regina.

The next thing she feels is one of Lucy's hands joining theirs.

A terrible wonderful reminder of the way family always pulls tight and strong when it must.

It's then that she hears Regina's voice.

Low and broken.

Softer than the rain; even softer than the sound of her own breathing.

"Em…Emma? Hen-Henry?"

As a hand – Regina's hand – turns and closes over the ones which had been over hers.

Fingers gripping tighter than Emma would have believed possible just a moment ago.

"Yeah, we're here," Emma assures her looking over at Henry, neither one of them quite believing, but both desperately needing to.

"Are…are we…did we?" Gasping, choked, pained, but still fighting to be heard.

Emma's eyes close, and she thinks she might laugh or cry; perhaps both.

Behind them, doors open and then slam shut, the sirens off but lights still whirling.

She hears the cops talking, maybe shouting.

Maybe at each other, maybe at her and Henry.

Emma doesn't know. Maybe it's all about to come apart (again) but for the moment, she doesn't care.

So she offers up a watery smile and says softly, "Yeah, Regina, we made it home."

* * *

 ** _before._**

"I promise," Henry says, his face splitting into a massive grin as he tries to reassure his mother for probably the hundredth time that he's not running away forever, and that he will be back.

Not that this is running away, and not that she's telling him that she wants him to come home – he hasn't even left yet – but he can see how worried she is that once he leaves, he'll never want to return. It's stupid, Henry thinks, because Storybrooke will always be his home. It's where his family is, and though many of the memories have been terrible, more have been wonderful.

"Regina, let the kid off the hot-seat," Emma chides good-naturedly as she comes up behind her co-mother. "It's his party."

It most certainly is that; Granny's has been decorated in a thousand different colors and it seems like the whole town has been dropping by over the last few hours. Whatever they might think of the craziness which seems to follow the Charming family around (and maybe, Emma reasons, it's the nature of those from the Enchanted Forest because they all seem to just roll with the weirdness of it all), Henry's reputation and place in Storybrooke remains pristine.

He is an adored prince of two houses and a respected young man welcomed into all others.

Which is probably why this Going Away party has been so emotional. Throughout the afternoon, there's been toasts and hugs, a lot of laughter and even some tears shed.

And now, apparently, some threats, too.

"Oh, don't you take that patient 'handling the Queen' tone with me, Miss Swan," Regina warns, gesturing dramatically.

"Miss Swan," Henry notes with a smirk.

Emma cringes. "Yeah." Then, her hands out in a placating manner, "Regina, I'm not try to handle you –"

Henry snickers, but waves away their looks.

"The hell you aren't. Need I remind you that we shared an entire bottle of whiskey last night?"

"And the two of you can walk straight?" Henry questions.

"We can; we were celebrating your heading off to college," Emma offers up.

"They were sobbing like mother hens," Hook chirps as he crosses over, dropping a kiss down onto Emma's head. Henry doesn't miss the look of exasperation Emma throws him nor Regina's dramatic eye roll; while Hook and Regina might have come to a truce over the years, calling it friendship would be a stretch. But at least she never looks more than annoyed by his mere presence anymore.

And Emma? Well, she's long given up on trying to get them to more than tolerate each other.

Their family has love for the most part, and peace where it matters, and that's enough.

"Mother hens," Regina repeats, looking like she's seriously considering ripping his heart out.

"Women and liquor," he teases, and he never did know when to quit. He has a bit of alcohol of his own rushing through his system right now, and it's making him far braver than is wise.

Sensing Regina's growing ire and recognizing Hook's inebriation, Emma steps in, "Her Majesty here put away most of the bottle."

Hook chuckles. "Oh, I'm sure that she did."

"And most certainly was not sobbing like a mother hen," Regina adds in. "But if you would like to see who can drink whom under a table, Captain, I'm happy to go. Just not rum. If we're going to see who has the largest balls, let's at least add some class to it, yes?"

"Guys," Henry sighs, more amused than annoyed.

Emma, on the other hand, is clearly not interested in this continuing. "Killian, please?"

"Ah, seems my lady is formally requesting that I show you mercy, Your Majesty," Hook says and he's grinning ear-to-ear. "So I shall." He winks at them, and then meanders away, picking up a mug of beer as he approaches Snow and David who have been watching everything from across the diner. David immediately puts an arm around him, and eases the mug from his hand, and Emma's fairly certain that he's asking Hook if maybe he shouldn't slow up.

But well, it's a party, and Hook has always enjoyed a good party.

She sighs and turns back towards Regina and Henry, startling when she sees the way Regina is still staring at Hook's back, like she's still contemplating violence.

"Killing is bad," Emma states, stepping closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially.

"Not always," Regina challenges, her brow furrowing like she's seriously considering it.

"Mom, he was just screwing with you."

Regina grunts in disgust, earning her a look of horror from Henry and bemusement from Emma.

"I meant…playing…teasing…you know what I meant," Henry babbles, and these are the times when he almost forgets that he's an eighteen-year-old on his way to college. When they're all together like this, and his moms are both being weird and off-beat, it's easy to feel like a kid.

It's easy to live in this moment, and wrap it tight around him.

"Maybe so…you'd think he'd have learned by now," Regina says, waving her hand. "Either way, you have to admit that killing him would be a favor. To Emma. My best friend."

"Gee, thanks," Emma drawls. "But then I'd have to arrest you."

"Or help me cover it up," Regina shrugs. "I'd be doing it for you. Least you could do is help."

"Congrats, you two," Henry sighs. "This is your most disturbing conversation ever."

"Ever?" Emma challenges. "Probably not ever." She looks at Regina who shrugs again. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure you'd be doing it for you," Emma insists. "I am married to him, after all."

"Exactly why it'd be for you," Regina counters. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you." She flashes a dazzling smile when she says this, but it's like a lioness showing off teeth.

That's what I'm worried about," Emma laughs. "But I still think we stay away from murder."

"If you insist."

"I'd really prefer it."

"Prefer is not insist."

"Fine: I _insist_ you stay away from murder."

"Anyway," Henry says, clearing his throat. "Back to me. What were you two doing last night?"

"We shared a few drinks in celebration of you," Emma says again. "There was no sobbing."

"But Emma did admit that she's going to miss you as well. Didn't you, Miss Swan?"

"All right, what exactly did I do to keep getting called that? Is this because of the no murder request? Because I still think it's a reasonable request to make being I'm the Sheriff and all."

"Yes, and also because you squirm when I call you it," Regina replies with a malicious smirk.

"You see what you're leaving me with, Kid?" Emma asks, an arm sweeping around him. He's so much taller than both of them now, practically towering over them even when they're in heels.

"Somehow, I think you'll manage," Henry assures them, his tone dry and bemused. Because this has been what it's been like for years now – comfortable and safe and wonderfully warm.

"I suppose," Regina allows, her smile more honest now, more easy and soft and happy.

"She loves me," Emma tells him with a short laugh and an easy grin. "You know she does."

"I know," he nods, seeming almost serious, like maybe he doesn't find it as funny as she does.

Before he can expand on his thoughts – before they can push on them (but they won't, he knows, and that's a shame) – the front door to the diner is opening and Zelena is entering in a rush of her typical frenetic energy. She grins over at her sister and then nods over at David.

"What are they up to?" Henry asks, looking back at his mothers.

"You'll see," Emma replies as a very keyed-up and openly excited David and Zelena make their way over to where the three of them are standing, Hook and Snow trailing close behind them.

"We have a present for you, Henry," Zelena blurts out.

"That wasn't the plan," David tells her. "We had a plan, Zelena."

"I don't like plans," she reminds him archly. "And being that I got it washed –"

"You used magic. I hardly think that –"

"Got _it_ washed?" Henry picks up. "Wait…is it a car? Is there a car outside?"

"Yes!" Zelena hoots, and then she's grabbing his arm and yanking him out of the diner and onto the street before he can even think to protest her actions (not that he would).

"I guess she's running the show," Regina chuckles and then she's leading the rest of the group out behind Henry and Zelena, ignoring David's grumbling and ignoring the conversation that Emma and Hook are having as they slightly linger back. Or well, at least she's attempting to.

Truth is, she's never been good at ignoring much of anything about Emma, and this is no different. Though, this is just a normal kind of moment between the two of them – Emma pushing a glass of water into his hand, and Hook murmuring a soft, "Sorry, love," in response.

It's their marriage, and her job is to support Emma however she needs her to, Regina reminds herself.

She keeps reminding herself.

Almost four years have passed since Hook and Emma had gotten married on that rooftop (with song, and yeah, that's still weird, and she very much appreciates that none of them have any desire to talk about it or Rumple's long-dead curse-weaving lunatic of a mother) and she supposes that tolerance has become her own normal.

Because apparently there truly is nothing which she won't do for Emma Swan.

In any case, that hardly matters. All that does, right now, is Henry and seeing him smile.

And, oh does he smile when his eyes fall onto the stunning vintage 1967 Ford Mustang parked out in front of the diner. Bright orange, rebuilt from the nuts and bolts all the way up and fitted with leather bucket seats, it glistens in the beaming afternoon sunlight of a perfect Maine day.

"What do you think?" David asks, gesturing towards the car, a massive grin on his face.

"Mine?" Henry asks, looking back at all of them, and telling himself not to cry.

"Yours," Emma says as she comes up behind him and wraps her arms around him, giving him a good hard squeeze before stepping back and moving to stand beside Regina. "It was a family effort." She gestures around to the others – his grandparents, Zelena, Hook, Granny, and Leroy. "We all took turns finding parts, locating labor, doing some of it when needed. Whatever. But we wanted you to have this, Kid. As a gift from all of us as you start you new journey."

A lump in his throat, he looks at Regina. "I thought you wanted me in something sensible?"

"Your mother drives an audacious sardine can and your grandfather drives a geriatric tetanus shot waiting to happen and those idiots over there –" she gestures over at Hook and Zelena, shaking her head as she does – "And between the two of them, they've crashed at least five cars because the cars weren't 'going fast enough'. Sensible is hardly in the DNA of this family," Regina replies dryly.

"That was four insults in one," David notes, extending his hand and offering Henry the keys.

"She's quite skilled," Emma nods and then nudges Regina's shoulder with hers. "But she doesn't really have a lot of room to talk considering she's still driving her Queenly 1980's Mercedes."

Regina cranes her head back towards Snow, "Why did I want into this ridiculous family?"

"Our Thanksgiving dinners are wonderful. Also…we kind of wore you down."

"Uh huh." Then, to Henry, "I might have wanted sensible…but I want you to be _you_ …more."

"It's perfect, Moms," Henry grins.

And then he turning towards both of his mothers, and his arms are sweeping out, and he might as well be twelve again because he's hugging them both so tight.

He's not afraid of leaving town – and he knows that he'll be back – but tomorrow starts a new adventure, and everything is going to change.

Hopefully for the best, but still, it's change.

So he wants to hold on to this memory like it's something fragile and precious.

There will be other ones like this, he tells himself, but still, this one is perfect.

He feels both of his mothers kiss his head, and whisper how much the love and adore him.

How proud they are of him.

How much they can't wait to see how he's going to change the world.

For a few seconds, his eyes are wet, and he thinks he actually _might_ cry, but then the door to the diner is opening, and people are flooding out to see his new car, and he's stepping away from them.

All the while grinning at his mothers as they stand side-by-side, both of them teasing each other because neither one of them is managing to hold back their emotions.

He holds up his keys, then, and asks, "Who wants to go on a ride with me?"

* * *

 ** _then._**

He's tossing out the tenth sheet of paper of the day when he hears the sound of the bus stopping just up the street from the apartment; a few minutes later, the door opens, and she's plowing through the door in a way that only a child of her age can. A smile crossing his face even in spite of his previous agitation, Henry stands up from his desk, pulls the cover down on his typewriter, lowers the lid of his laptop, and turns to greet his nine and a half-year-old daughter.

"Hey, Luce," he says as he takes her bag from her, "How was your day?"

"Usual," Lucy replies as she shrugs off her coat. "How was yours?"

"Good," he nods like he's trying to convince himself of his own lies. Then, because it's easier than thinking about the words which refuse to come to him, he asks, "Nothing interesting?"

"Lots interesting. Kevin asked me to be his girlfriend."

"Kevin? Who's Kevin? Do I know Kevin? Do I need to have a talk with Kevin?"

"I told him 'no', Dad," she assures him as she makes her way over to the cupboards.

"Oh good." His eyes widen as she watches her opening the cupboards. His face falling in horror as realization sweeps over him, he says, "Oh shit, there was something…I was supposed to –"

"Go shopping," she says with a scowl as they both peer up at the mostly empty cupboard above them. Oh, there are about half a dozen cans of beef barley soup and there's a very old very tragic looking box of Kraft Mac and cheese up there, but nothing worthwhile beyond that.

"I lost track of time," Henry admits. He runs his hands through his dark brown hair, and then looks down at her apologetically. His sheepish smile is meant to make the moment light, but it's hard to step back from the disappointment he sees in her dark eyes; it's hard not to see how much of a failure he has become at pretty much everything that means anything to him.

"Dad," she admonishes, because she has a fair idea that "lost track of time" had involved him sitting at his typewriter staring at a blank sheet of paper like it almost always does these days. One glance at the typewriter and then down at the trash basket, and she knows she's right.

Unfortunately, this isn't new; she's too young to entirely understand his obsession with making these old somewhat forgotten stories come back to him (she knows that it has something to do with his grandparents and his two moms and the town he'd grown up in, and how they'd all disappeared ten years ago), but she knows that they're meaningful. She knows that something good that happens on the typewriter can cause something to happen on the laptop. Or at least, something used to happen, but it's been a long time since she's seen her dad excited about it.

A long time since she's seen him looking anything close to happy.

"I'm sorry," Henry sighs. "But we can go now –"

She shakes her head and grins at him, "Nah. We'll shop tomorrow. I want pancakes tonight."

"You want pancakes?"

"Pancakes," she nods. "Apple pancakes."

"Apples. Right," he murmurs, and a soft smile comes over his lips (he tells himself that this is because he's been thinking about them again, thanks to the dreams and the stories and that damn Google Maps image that only he can see; but then again, it's not like his moms are ever far from his thoughts). "Okay, let's do pancakes." Henry frowns, then, the sheepish expression returning to his heavily stubbled face. "Really stupid question time. Is tonight a school night?"

She rolls her eyes; this isn't a new question for him. He rarely seems to know what day of the week it is. "Nope, tomorrow is Saturday. Which means that we can sleep in."

"Cool." He looks out the window, noticing that it's gotten fairly overcast, and looks like rain might be imminent. It's the season for impressive storms here in Bangor – not Storybrooke impressive – but few things are that. "You wanna go close or far? Looking like it might storm."

"Somewhere new," she says.

"Somewhere new it is, Kiddo," Henry replies. He leans down, then, and kisses her on the top of the head. Maybe he holds his lips there a moment longer than is strictly necessary, a hundred chaotic thoughts suddenly rushing through him. These days, she is the only good thing in his life; and he's pretty sure that she could do better if her father were one of those crazy-bible thumpers who seem to materialize out of thin air. She could do so much better, and he tells himself he's going to be better for her. If he can just get the world to slow down long enough for the words to come so that he can tell the stories he needs to in order to fix everything…

But he's been trying to do that for so long…

Trying and failing, his doubt-ridden mind reminds him. And it's right, of course. For almost ten years now, he's been searching in every way that he knows how to find his lost family. A year ago, he thought he'd made a breakthrough. He thought he'd seen Storybrooke show up on the satellite image that he always has up on his laptop – the one where the town should be. He's sure it had been there, shimmering, the faded town line there, the sign bright green.

It'd been there, and then it'd been gone, and he thinks maybe it was never there.

But he hasn't been able to completely stop believing.

Because the night it has been there, he'd been remembering a story he had forgotten.

About a Queen and a Savior and how they'd moved the moon together.

Since then, he's tried to remember more of the stories.

He's tried to remember everything he'd read and been through enough to write them down on the typewriter that his grandfather had given him the night before his moms had taken him to college.

The last night he'd seen his family.

He's tried to remember and…

…and it's gotten him…nowhere.

They're still lost and he's still here with a typewriter and an idea and neither is going anywhere.

Maybe it's time to give up, and focus on what's in front of him instead of on a past which no one believes is real because…because fairytales are just stories. Nothing more than stories.

He knows better, of course, but he's not sure that matters.

So yeah, maybe soon it will be time to give up.

Maybe soon, it'll be time to put away the typewriter and stop looking at the satellite images.

Maybe it'll be time to realize he doesn't have the strength everyone always thought he had.

For now, though, there's just the warmth of how much Lucy loves him in spite of his failures.

So he holds her until it's too much for his heart to bare, and then twenty-eight year old Henry Mills stands up, offers her a big smile, and says, "Okay, Luce, let's go get us some pancakes."

 **###**

It starts raining almost the moment they step outside, but luckily, there's a new all-night diner not far from their apartment. He holds the umbrella over both of them, listening as she talks about her day at school and the schemes she'd been hatching – she's a firecracker, and she's always up to something. He finds it all much more amusing than the school does, but that's probably because she reminds him of himself.

Maybe that's not a good thing.

Well, she also reminds him of his –

Henry shakes his head, eyes straight ahead. "Here," he says as they reach the diner. One which looks vaguely old-school in style, and reminds him of a past that he keeps trying to get back to.

She looks up at him, frowning when she hears the change in his tone. But she knows him well enough to know that he won't answer her directly – won't ever admit to whatever is bothering him. "Here?" she repeats, and they're just words to bring him back to her.

He nods, and pushes the door open. Immediately, they're both hit with the smell of bacon and grease. Looking around, Henry takes in the room, observing the dated décor. It's a bit strange for a new place, but he assumes that they'd taken the building over from some other business, and around here, there really isn't a need to upscale. Despite his healthy financials, they're living in the quieter more unassuming and away from the high-life part of Bangor.

"Two," Henry says to the guy leaning over the cash register, his eyes on his cell phone.

"Whatever table you'd like," the guy replies, and then looks down again.

"Friendly," Henry mutters, and then he's steering the two of them to a table near the back of the diner, away from a guy in a clean looking suit who is sitting in a booth looking like he's trying to use a massive stack of pancakes to get himself sober before he has to go home.

But that's what this place looks like, Henry thinks, and maybe it's his writer's brain, and he's coming up with stories for everyone, but when he looks around, all he sees are lost souls.

 _Desperate souls, Henry._

"This one," he stammers and does a quick turn towards a booth in a quieter section.

"Dad?"

"Fine," he replies instinctively, and hates the question she was about to ask.

He wonders if his mother had hated it as well – seeing his worry for her.

All the while worrying that he'd seen her as broken or somehow insufficient.

He hadn't seen his mother that way, but he wonders if his daughter sees him as such.

"Do you have a story for me?" she asks once they're both seated. Her hands folds in front of her, and she leans towards him, as if she's eager for him to tell her something fantastic.

He shakes his head. "Not today. Nothing came."

"So you didn't see the town?"

"No," he replies quietly, and feels shame wind its way through him. Because she's nine, and she's never seen the town, and yet she believes that he has because she believes in him.

She shouldn't, he thinks darkly, but she does, and he loves her for it more than she knows.

"That's okay. Something will come tomorrow, and you can tell me then," Lucy nods, eyes scanning across the room until she finds the waitress who will be taking care of them; she's over at the register now, her head dipped down low, long brown hair curtaining her face as she closes out one of her table's checks. "Then tell me an old story. Something you do remember."

"An old story, huh?" He runs his hand past his eyes, thinking for a moment. "You want me to tell you a story about your mom?" he smiles when he says this, his hand falling away. There's sadness in talking of her, but it's not terrible because their story had played out, and even though he misses his wife terribly, the short time they'd had together had been beautiful.

"Nuh uh. Tell me one of the stories from your book. The ones you have written down."

He frowns at that because if she only knew how few are actually written down; the real book is as lost as his family is, and he thinks maybe that's part of the problem. The ones he's been able to remember and rewrite? Drops in a bucket compared to the forgotten rich tapestry of it all.

Is it possible that losing the book and forgetting the stories has done what Emma's temporary loss of faith so many years ago had almost done to the realms? Had he wiped out his family?

He's had this thought entirely too many times, and each time, it drives him to near madness.

But not tonight, he vows.

Tonight, he's going to at least try to be a good father.

"Maybe not today, Kiddo. You dream of that stuff. Nightmares."

She stares back at him, not much of a kid in this moment. " _You_ get nightmares."

He's about to respond, about to try to joke this off and try to make this moment less awful, but then there's the quiet – too quiet for this room, Henry thinks – sound of footsteps approaching.

"Hi," Lucy says to the approaching waitress, her voice bright as only a child's can be.

"Hi, Sweetheart," the waitress replies, her voice deep and low and disturbingly familiar.

But it's Lucy words which make him look up – "You look just like my grandma."

His head jerks up, and true to his daughter's words, he finds himself starring into the face of Regina Mills – a face Lucy has seen before thanks to a crumpled picture inside his wallet.

Oh, she looks remarkably different than the woman he'd grown up with, for sure. This woman standing in front of him looks small and almost desperately fragile. Her hair is longer than he'd ever seen it on his mother, down her back, and strangely limp. She's dressed in a black skirt with a cheap – though neatly pressed – white blouse, a black thin windbreaker on over it presumably to keep her warm. Looking down, he notices that she's not wearing heels, simplistic flats instead on her feet. What he notices most of all, though, is how unnaturally heavy her make-up is, like maybe it's there to cover up more than just the age and exhaustion of life.

But that's just it, he thinks – that's why this can't be his mother. Because it's been ten years since the last time he'd seen her, and this woman for all of her apparent exhaustion looks the same age as Regina had looked the day that his moms had dropped him off at college.

Which means that no, this can't be her.

Which means that his family is still missing, and there's still nothing where –

"Do I now?" the waitress replies, and it's then that he sees the woman who looks so much like his mother lift her hand up and brush her hair away as she smiles back at Lucy. It's then that he sees the deep scar above her upper lip, the slope of it cutting down in an unmistakable way.

Henry's mouth falls open. "Mom?"

She turns towards him, her eyebrow up, and for a moment, he can't breathe because her dark eyes are so familiar to him, and yet in this moment, also so unrecognizable. She's looking right at him, but for all the awareness she shows, he might as well be a stranger. To her, he is one; and that become abundantly clear to him when she asks - her expression changing from one of docile somewhat disinterested pleasantness to annoyance and perhaps even wariness, "You two putting me on? Because it's been a very long day, and if you're here to play around -"

"You do look like an old picture of my grandma," Lucy inserts, her youthful energy almost immediately disarming the waitress who looks like Regina. "Dad's a writer. Which means he spends all day entertaining himself. He thinks he's being funny." She shakes her head.

"Thanks, Kiddo," Henry says feebly, the words like marbles in his mouth.

"I see," the waitress answers with a short laugh which doesn't sound as amused as she likely means it to. He watches as her hands move into the pockets of her windbreaker (it's then that he realizes that she hadn't come over with a scratch pad for their orders – presumably being able to take them from memory; and he finds himself thinking about growing up knowing that his mother would never forget anything that happened around her), each hand landing on something solid in there. When she speaks again, there's an edge of professional distance that almost feels familiar in an unsettling way. "Funny boy. Well, my name is Elizabeth not Mom, and I'll be your waitress." She looks at Henry, "I assume that you'd like some coffee?""

"Coffee," he repeats, and then nods. "Elizabeth." He points to himself. "Henry."

Unware of the reaction he's desperately hoping for – the awareness he's feverishly praying for - she turns and looks at Lucy, an eyebrow up. "I assume this is still him trying to be funny?"

Lucy rolls her eyes and grins up at her. "So he thinks." Then, lowering her voice in a way which is clearly meant to be conspiratorial between the two of them, "Better make it decaf."

Elizabeth – no, Regina, he insists – chuckles. Her hands come out of her pockets (he sees her flex her left hand, and it almost seems instinctive – something to file away for later), and her posture relaxes as she engages with Lucy. "It's coming down pretty good outside," she notes as she glances over at the now rain-smeared windows. "How about some hot chocolate for you?"

"With cinnamon?"

The words all sweep away from him in that moment, his vision blurring, his heart pounding.

Henry hears the woman – _his mother_ – reply softly, "Of course, dear."

After that, he's just falling, a thousand images behind his eyes crashing together to form one.

One story.

About a town that has been lost for ten years.

About a family that has been missing for ten years as well.

About his mothers who he misses more than he can put into words.

His eyes go white for a moment, and then roll back as he hits the ground.

The satellite image on his laptop changes for the first time in almost a year.

And still the story goes on.

:D


	2. One

_**A/N: Thanks for all of the very kind words - we're all in for a very bumpy ride, but a very rewarding one, ultimately.**_

 _ **A quick note about this one: Regina's cursed identity is Elizabeth Carson - for the sake of being clear about her voice (which is decidedly not Regina in journey or fight) in the story being Elizabeth and not Regina and not confusing y'all about who is speaking or interacting with our characters, cursed Regina will narratively be known as Elizabeth.  
**_

 _ **Warnings: Allusions to domestic abuse, some language and an absolute fuck-ton of foreshadowing. And Hook.**_

* * *

 _ **before**_

The sun breaks in through the open curtains of his bedroom, and for a few seconds, he thinks nothing of it as it's been happening like this for eighteen years now. He's never needed to wake up with an alarm clock because thanks to the way his bedroom faces, nature has always been very happy to provide a very bright rise and shine. This morning is absolutely no exception.

So, the sun streaming in and over his face, Henry yawns, rolls over and buries his face back into his pillow, one hand streaking out to pull the blankets up and over his head once again.

That is until he realizes that the blanket he's pulling over himself isn't his normal one.

His favorite one – the one he's had since he was a very small child.

Because that one is packed up with the rest of his suitcases into the back of his car.

 _His new car._

Which had been given to him yesterday by his family as a Going Away To College gift.

Something he's doing _today_.

Eyes widening in excitement, Henry jumps from his bed, nearly stumbling over the thick down blanket which his mom had pulled from one of the linen closets in order to keep him warm in the absence of his usual comforters. Knowing her, she'll have a whole new set of sheets and blankets on the bed when he comes home from school for the first time. An adult set meant to tell him that she respects that he's growing up and no longer wants to sleep on bright colors.

He thinks that eventually, he'll let her know that he really doesn't mind that a very large part of her still wants to see him as her little boy. Because a very large part of him still needs to be that.

So yeah, eventually, he'll let her know that it's okay to keep the bright sheets on his bed.

Probably not today, though.

Because today is the day he's going to finish packing up his car, and then he and his two moms are going to caravan their way to Massachusetts so that he can start his freshman year at BC.

"Hey, you're up," he hears from the doorway, Emma's soft voice interrupting his thoughts.

He looks up at her and grins, clocking her casual jeans and hoodie and the easy smile she has on her face. He knows that this is hard for her, too, but she's handling it better than Regina is by a landslide. Which he understands, but he wants this day to be as wonderful for them as it is for him. "Hey, Mom," he replies as he makes his way over to her and gives her a big hug, his youthful exuberance enough to make her laugh. "Do I smell breakfast?"

"You really think your mom wouldn't make you a fifteen-course breakfast?" Emma jokes.

"All the works?"

"And then some. I think she might have invented a few new breakfast foods just for this morning. You know, when she suggested I come over this morning so we could get an early start, I didn't think she planned to put us all in a food coma before we hit the road, but…

"She's anxious," he puts in, his smiling dropping away, his green eyes growing serious.

"What she is, Henry, is excited for you."

"But –"

"She's going to miss you- we both will. That doesn't mean we're any less proud for you. Or less excited. It'll take her awhile to adjust to you not being around, but that's what I'm for."

"But you can't be around all the time –"

"Nor does she need me to be. Your mom might not want to be as isolated as she once was, but she still values her quiet time more than most of us. She needs her time to decompress."

"She's had a lot of that in her life," Henry says, frowning as thoughts he's had entirely too many of as of late bubble to the surface. Because age brings with it awareness, and some of the things he hadn't noticed when he was nine or eleven seem disturbingly apparent to him now.

Things such as how lonely his mom sometimes looks even when she's smiling bright and wide.

"She has," Emma admits.

"And you're her best friend."

"I am."

"She needs you."

"Kid –"

"You'll make sure she's not alone. I mean actually alone, right?"

Emma sighs. "You know I will. She's got my mom and her sister, and _always_ she's got me."

"And what about Hook? Is he going to be okay with you spending more time with her?"

"First off, it won't be more time. I spend a _lot_ of time with her now. You just don't realize it because you're always off doing…something or other. Nothing is going to change between the two of us - not now, not ever. But most importantly, Hook knows better than to think he can decide whom I spend my time with. I love him and he loves me, but that doesn't mean he owns my life. My relationship with Regina has absolutely nothing to do with him and…never will. So don't worry about that, all right?"

"Okay," he says dubiously.

"You have doubts?" she queries, frowning. "Why? Doubts about me? About me and your mom? You think I'm going to bail –"

"No, never. And not about you or her. Not even really about him."

"Then what's bothering you?"

"I just want my family happy. I want my moms happy."

"Well, we are. You have nothing to worry about."

"Isn't that my place to worry?"

"No, it never was," she says seriously, a hand on his shoulder, forcing their eyes to meet.

After a moment, like he's remembering that he's eighteen and not twelve, he shifts anxiously away from her. "We should probably get down to breakfast before she comes hunting for us."

"I was just about to say that. It's going to take us about three hours to eat it. At least."

He snorts in bemusement as they exit the room together, but halfway down the hall, he stops, stepping in front of her, his voice lowering. "Promise me that you'll watch out for her, okay?"

"And we're back to this. Henry, what's really going on here? The truth, okay?"

"You remember a few years ago? When we all got separated by Pan's curse? And she had to give me up in order to save everyone?" Off Emma nodding, her brow furrowing as she tries to figure out where he's headed with this line of logic, he continues with, "No one will ever say it to me directly, but I know that she got suicidal while she was there. I know that she struggled."

"She's not that person, anymore. She's changed a lot."

"Six weeks ago, she stepped in front of that weird half-dragon half-bat thing because she thought that you and I were in danger of getting roasted alive. Emma, you know how she is."

"I do, and I think she and I already had our argument about that, but…but that aside, I meant it when I said she's not alone. And just as she's there for me, I'm going to be there for her, too."

"I think sometimes she smiles because she thinks that's what she's supposed to do."

"Tell me I'm not hearing what I think I am?" a very dry very unamused voice asks from the top of the stairs, Regina's sudden stealthy presence startling both Henry and Emma.

"Shit," Emma curses, wincing in reaction.

"Double shit," Henry echoes.

"Indeed. So two things," Regina says, stepping closer to them. "First, your grandfather called –"

"Which grandfather?"

"Rumple. He would like to see you this morning before we leave. I told him you'd be over after breakfast. We don't have a lot of time in our schedule, but I promised Snow and David that we'd stop by their place on our way out of town as well so we'll need to move quickly."

"Lots of goodbyes," Henry says thoughtfully, looking right at Regina.

"Lots of family wishing you good luck, and telling you how much we can't wait to see you home in a few weeks to tell us all about your adventures," Emma corrects, her tone rather pointed.

"What Emma is trying to tell you in code – very poor code, mind you - is correct."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Your Majesty."

"Any time, Princess."

"You're hilarious."

"I know." She looks back over at Henry who has been watching his mothers' banter with open almost wistful amusement. "As for you, while I am deeply touched by your concern for me, I am not someone who needs to be coddled and protected by…anyone. Even – or perhaps especially – you two. I have spent most of my life taking care of myself. I will miss you, Henry, more than you know, but I am not going to roll into a pathetic ball and wither away. I'm…genuinely happy here. My life might not have turned out as I expected it to, but that's all right. I have so much now. As for what happened before in the Enchanted Forest…it was a different situation. I like to think I'm not actually losing you this time." She touches his face tenderly, her eyes shining.

"You're not," he says, leaving no doubt in his words. "I'm just –"

"Worried, I know. And I hate that because that's not your responsibility to worry about me."

"I told him that," Emma notes.

Regina nods, accepting Emma's words. "All we want for you, Henry, is for you to focus on what's ahead of you. Everything you have will always be here. We…I'm not going anywhere." She looks over at Emma, then, "I need you to understand that as well. I'm not fragile."

"I know," Emma says gently, reaching out to squeeze her wrist. "We know."

"Good. Then stop handling me, Swan –" she gives Henry a look when he again laughs at that, and it's not that because the double entendre is lost on her, but rather that the reality of what she knows Emma is doing is getting swept under the rug, and she's really rather annoyed about that because it frankly chafes that Emma thinks that she can so easily maneuver her. Irritating, truly.

"Sorry," Henry says, waving his hand. "Got something stuck in my throat."

Emma gives him two hard smacks on the back. "That help?"

"Yeah, thanks," he grins.

Regina rolls her eyes at their antics, but can't entirely manage to hide the smile breaking through. Because over the last few years, this has become something of a normal for all of them. Sometimes the rest of their family is there, but sometimes it's just the three of them, and it's perfect. "Breakfast is up and cooling, if you two idiots are done being…Charming idiots."

Emma looks over at Henry. "I'd almost think that was supposed to wound us…"

"If it didn't sound so much like love," Henry finishes for her, tilting his head and giving her Regina his best adoring puppy dog face, a look which is frankly ridiculous for a boy who towers above her, but somehow it still hits her right in the middle of her chest. That and Emma's knowing smile.

Regina groans and then walks away from both of them, shaking her head in feigned disgust.

Smiling indulgently the moment she knows that she's out of their eye line.

Sure, it droops a bit right at the edges because yes, Henry being away from home is going to hit her like a ton of bricks, but she truly does believe that she can handle this. Because he's not in another world, and he's not lost to her – he's just a couple states away and he's so very happy.

They all are.

This is what happiness is.

True, as a young girl, she'd always believed that her happiness would involve sharing her life with another person, and yes, there's a bit of wariness about how once Henry leaves, she'll have too many empty rooms and not just every other weekend while he's away with Emma;, but she figures she'll adjust and adapt and maybe there's still someone out there for her. And if there isn't, well, she still has her family, and they _want_ to be with her and that truly matters.

Gods, does it matter.

So the smile comes and it goes and then it returns because she hears Henry and Emma coming up behind her, neither of them having a clue how to walk delicately. She hears them laughing about her massive breakfast and then Emma is squeezing her shoulder and Henry is coming up behind her and taking one of her hands and spinning her around in a quick dance step that she'd taught him years ago, and she thinks to herself that as long as she has this, she's okay.

And isn't that quite the change from when she'd had nothing and been alone and broken.

Yes, quite the change, indeed.

* * *

 _ **then**_ _ **.**_

Elizabeth Carson has no idea why assures the EMT with, "I know her; I'll take care of her."

She has no idea why she calls home and says, "Something came up;, I'll be a little bit late."

She has no idea why she tells her boss, "Someone should watch out for her right now."

She doesn't know this child or her father – despite their bizarre insistence that she looks like some old picture of theirs, they're entirely new to her. She's not "Mom" or "Grandma", she's just Elizabeth; and the only family she has is the man displeased that she's going to be late.

But she has her reasons, she supposes, even if she hasn't a clue what they might be.

"He'll be all right," she promises Lucy, fingers clutching tightly. She's not the least bit surprised when the girl moves into her, arms wrapping around her waist. She is a bit surprised when she has to fight back some kind of strange urge to lean down and kiss Lucy on the top of the head.

Her husband would certainly laugh at her and call it "woman instincts flaring up on her".

Oh, but she'd prefer not to think about Trev right now.

Because thinking about him means thinking about what happens when she gets home.

That's for later. For now, there's a scared little girl in her arms.

"We're going to follow the ambulance to the hospital," Elizabeth tells her, her fingers weaving absently through Lucy's long dark hair. "They're going to do some tests on him to try and see if they can figure out why he passed out, and then they'll release him, and you can go home."

"Will you stay with me?" Lucy asks, eyes wide and frightened, and it occurs to Elizabeth that whatever weird kind of impression she'd gotten from Lucy's father about his "Mom" antics, this child is one who seems well-adjusted enough, and quite clearly adores her father. That kind of affection is disturbingly rare in her world, and so she finds herself smiling at the little girl.

Smiling and saying in soft voice streaked with tenderness, "Of course, I will."

It's a dumb choice, one she knows that she will certainly pay for it later;, and that's dumb, too, because she's gotten very good at knowing how to stay out of confrontations with Trev. She knows how to make him content enough for them to all live peacefully, and this isn't the way.

So yeah, this is dumb;, but she's apparently doing it, anyway.

Apparently, against all common sense (and she likes to think that she's built up a good reserve of it over the years), with two hours to go in her shift, she's leaving work with any empty pocket (you only get tips if you complete your hours), and she's opening the passenger door to her old Honda for Lucy and reminding the little girl to "buckle up; it's coming down pretty good."

This is an almost catastrophically bad choice, and her cell hasn't stopped ringing since she'd hung up on Trev after she'd told him what she was going to do and he'd growled at her to "get that stupid thought out of your head, Lizzie, and get your hot little ass back to work." But she hadn't gone back to work, and one glance down at her phone confirms that it's his name that keeps lighting up, a message left after every call, his temper assuredly flaring out of control at this.

She just needs to get him to understand, she reasons with herself.

Convince him of why she'd needed to do this.

Or find a way to cool him down by apologizing and making it up to him.

Maybe she'll pick up one of his favorite cigars on the way home -

"You okay?" Lucy asks suddenly, and it's then when Elizabeth notices that they're still in the parking lot of the diner with rain slamming loudly against the metal roof of the car, and her knuckles white as she grips the steering wheel, and stares straight ahead into the darkness.

She exhales and forces a smile, "I'm fine, honey. Just thinking about the quickest way to the hospital." She turns the ignition on, grimacing when it takes two tries for the engine to turn over. Probably means she'll need to ask Trev to take a look at it again. Engines are kind of his thing, but he always hassles her about why it seems like her car keeps breaking down. Still, heading into the ugly season here in Bangor, she really would prefer to get it checked out.

"I'm sorry about this," Lucy offers up. "I know me and my dad are kind of weird."

It's the unapologetic honesty of a child which that makes her laugh louder than she might have otherwise. "You're fine," she says. "But, since we're going to be spending some time together, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself, Lucy? I'm assuming it's just you and your dad?"

"Yeah," Lucy nods. "My mom passed away a few years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you…do you remember her?" Elizabeth asks.

"Kind of. Sometimes I dream about her. She liked to sing to me sometimes, but she didn't have a good voice." Lucy shrugs her shoulders. "I didn't mind. Neither did dad." She thinks for a moment before adding, "I remember her stories the most. "She was a storyteller just like dad."

"Your father is a writer?"

"He's the Author."

Elizabeth lifts an eyebrow. "The Author, huh?" She nods. "Have I read anything of his?"

"Every fairytale you've ever read."

"He writes children's books?"

Lucy turns her head slightly, giving Elizabeth a strange look, like she's trying to read her as much as a child can ever really read an adult. Finally, she shrugs, "Something like that," she allows.

"I…see," Elizabeth replies, feeling bizarrely disquieted. She lifts a hand up and runs it through her hair. When she drops it back, she notices that she hasn't yet put her wedding ring back on.

And for a moment, as they sit stopped at a red light, she finds herself just starring at her hand.

"What can I call you?" Lucy asks suddenly.

"What?"

"Your name. Is Elizabeth your real name or like…a stage name?"

It seems an odd question, though it shouldn't be. Maybe, it's the way both this child and her father had suggested that she looked like someone else to them, and for half a moment, Elizabeth finds herself gripped by this absurd need to supply that person to this little girl.

Because maybe that person is someone better than this person.

But no because no matter how far she tries to run from who she – no matter how many different ways she tries to hide the realities of her life – she is still just Elizabeth Carson.

She slips her hand into her pocket and extracts a simple gold band – the cheap wedding ring that Trev had given her so many years ago. Back then, it had seemed like enough, and she'd thought that his anger and frustration with the world were all just signs of ambition and hope.

Turns out that anger is just anger, and it will almost always burn you from the inside out, and leave you little more than an empty worthless husk just waiting for someone to blow you away.

"Elizabeth is my real name," she replies softly, sliding the ring onto her hand. It's typically off during her shifts because presenting herself as a single woman is almost always better for tips.

Not that she would ever tell Trev that – it's not something he would see the wisdom or logic in, and it's just not worth the fight. Truth is, very little is ever worth the fight with him.

Which is why what she's doing tonight Lucy seems so monstrously stupid to her.

Even as she does it.

"Hi, Elizabeth," Lucy chirps.

Elizabeth smiles just a bit at Lucy's youthful energy, and then asks carefully, "Honey, has this happened to your father before? Has he passed out like this?" It's a curiosity based on her own familiarity with men who drink to the point of collapse, and though Henry hadn't seemed even slightly drunk to her, he had been acting rather strangely (or maybe that's his normal, she doesn't know, but it's hard to imagine a grown man going around calling strangers "mom").

"No," Lucy replies, and Elizabeth knows that she's being lied to. She also knows that there's nothing that she can – or will – do about it; it's not like she's in a situation to be able to help.

More than she is, anyway.

If Lucy's father is a drunk or somehow, God forbid, abusive…well, the state will have to deal with it. What she's doing tonight is already going out on a limb too far for a stranger.

It's only because she's a child…

"I think he just hasn't been sleeping," Lucy allows, and there's something measured and cautious in her words, like she's being deliberate in what she's choosing to say here.

An oddity for a nine-almost-ten-year-old child, but Elizabeth finds herself looking over. "Oh?"

"He's been working on his book almost around the clock."

"His book about…fairytales?" Elizabeth prompts.

"About his home," Lucy says quietly. She looks ahead, then, staring at the hospital as it comes into view of them. Her face contorts into something young and worried, and Elizabeth finds herself reaching over and taking the little girl's hand, squeezing it gently to try and reassure her.

Because whatever else, however else Elizabeth views the world and everything in it, Lucy is still just a child, and no child should ever be as afraid as Lucy is right now. "We're here," she says.

"My dad will be okay?"

"Is your dad tough?" Elizabeth asks, parking and then turning to face her.

"My dad is a hero," Lucy replies, so confident and sure. So unshakably proud of him.

It's a nonsensical answer, but Elizabeth supposes that it's a child's answer so she nods, "Okay, then you have nothing to worry about. They'll check him out, and then you'll be on your way home." She glances at the clock on the dashboard, frowning as she thinks about her lost wages and how upset Trev is going to be about them. "You'll be home in time for bedtime," she says.

"You promise?"

" _Oh_ ," Elizabeth answers softly, blinking hard enough to feel the mascara she's wearing. It's not an answer, but then she has no idea how to answer a question like that. Because she knows better than to make promises like that. She knows that the world doesn't actually work out.

Even for children.

But they're just words, she tells herself, and it's unlikely that she will ever see this little girl again after tonight, so she forces a smile and says to her, "I promise; everything will be all right."

It's apparently enough because Lucy leans over and hugs her, and it's such sudden and warm contact that it startles Elizabeth (Trev touches her frequently, of course, and some of the other waitresses give her hugs from time to time, but beyond that, most of the touching she receives is the unwanted kind that she's learned to humor because doing so helps to increase her tips).

Before she can respond or figure out if she even should, Lucy is pushing the door to the car open and jumping out, not caring about the rain as it continues to fall in wet sheets on them.

Eyes straight ahead, like she's on a mission, Lucy makes her way towards the hospital.

Towards her father.

Like everything makes sense, and always will. Like the world will never disappoint her.

Getting out of the car and stretching muscles which have suddenly become almost reflexively tight, Elizabeth watches, her stomach sinking as she thinks about just how often it actually will.

How often it has let her down.

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her windbreaker again, seeming angry and frantic.

It dings a moment later with a voicemail which she has no intention of listening to.

Because she knows how this goes.

The previous messages have probably all been alternating versions of "honey, call me, and let's talk about this, okay?" and Trev cursing up a blue streak as he demands she come home now.

The door to the hospital shuts, Lucy disappearing down the hallway, in search of her father.

Another ring and another ding, and she wonders if this one is the one where Trev tries to be more understanding – the one where he tells her that this isn't her problem, _sweetheart_.

Elizabeth reaches into the pocket of her windbreaker again, extracting a pack of Menthols. She lights one and inhales deeply, her hands trembling. She closes her eyes and counts to fifty.

Reminds herself that she knows how to handle Trev's anger.

Knows how to make him happy.

She'll just explain this, and tell him that she'd felt bad for a scared child.

He'll understand.

She knows he won't.

She should have learned her lesson, he'll tell her.

About how they're always best when they just mind their own business.

When she remembers that the only thing that matters is the two of them.

She inhales again, then stubs out the cigarette and follows Lucy inside.

* * *

 _ **before**_

"Henry!" David calls out as he yanks open the screen door to the farmhouse and wraps his grandson in a massive hug. It's not like they hadn't all seen each other – and stayed out late celebrating – the night before, but in this family, massive hugs come quick and easy, and so Henry accepts his grandfather's greeting, and maybe he even holds on for a few moments.

Because he's going to miss evenings sitting on this porch talking about…nothing.

Just the quiet of Maine air and a night full of bright glittering stars above the farmhouse.

Talking about the past and the present and everything wonderful the future will bring them.

"You're all packed?" Snow asks as she steps outside, greeting both Regina and Emma as they trail behind Henry. The two cars – Henry's Mustang and Emma's Bug – are both parked in front of the house, the trunks of each of them loaded all the way to the top with Henry's boxes.

The things he can't bear to not have with him.

"All good," Emma nods. She glances around. "Where's Killian?"

"Inside with Zelena. Arguing about a game of chess, which I think they both cheated at."

"I told you he cheats," Regina tells her. "There's no way he could beat me."

"You think anyone who beats you is cheating," Emma shoots back.

"Not everyone. You managed to beat me after a couple glasses of wine."

Snow snorts at that. She offers Henry a hug as he passes by, and then turns her attention back to the women. "Are you two planning on staying in Boston tonight or heading right back?"

"I let her decide the plans," Regina notes.

"To prove that she could give up control," Emma adds with a roll of her eyes. She then grins over at Regina, like's not even bothering to hide that they're both just annoying each other.

"So is that a yes or a no?" Snow queries, so used to them by now that it doesn't even phase her.

"We have rooms in Boston for the night," Emma tells her. "I think we're going to hang with Henry tonight, see the campus and have dinner, and then make the drive back in the morning."

"I wish we could go with you," David states, leaning against the rail.

"So do I." Emma admits. "But with the weirdness of the last couple times you and mom have tried to leave Storybrooke, I just don't think it's a smart risk to take." She frowns when she says this, thinking about how just about a year ago, her parents had attempted to take a vacation outside of the town, and hadn't gotten two hundred feet over the line before Snow had passed out, all of the color fading from her, a strange gray coating of dust covering her whole body.

Neither Gold nor Regina had been able to come up with any kind of explanation besides a flimsy operating theory that anyone originally cursed to Storybrooke by Regina was still operating with some kind of bizarre shepherd's nook pulling them back to the town at all times.

"We agree," Snow says, "But that doesn't mean we're not still a little bit jealous."

"We'll take pictures," Emma promises. "I'll even make Regina smile in them."

"You amuse yourself, don't you, Swan?"

"I amuse you."

"In the same way that –"

"Ladies," Hook calls out through the screen-door just before it opens and he steps out with Henry and Neal (who Henry is carrying in his arms) right behind him. Seemingly unaware that he's just interrupted something (though Regina suspects that he's quite aware), he smiles charmingly, and then moves around to Emma. "You left before I woke up," he tells her quietly.

"You were sleeping pretty soundly," she replies, her hand lifting to brush hair from his temple.

"Headache's fine," he assures her. "Barely a hangover."

"Good." Then, smiling to clear away the tension, "I hear you and Zelena were…cheating?"

"She kept magically altering the chess pieces," he grumbles. "And I'm pretty sure that the two munchkins were assisting her." He mock glares over at Neal who giggles in response to that.

Regina snorts at that, and nods. "Creative," she observes, and then heads inside.

"Oh, she finds that kind of cheating endearing," he muses, acting terribly put upon. "No threats of fireballing for Zelena."

Emma holds up her hands. "I'm not getting in the middle of you two." She glances at her phone, then, "Hey, Kid, we need to be getting a move on if we're going to get there before five."

"Right," he agrees. "Do I still have time to go see my grandpa?"

"If you hurry," Emma tells him. "Drive over. We'll meet you in twenty minutes."

"Sounds good," Henry agrees, and then turns back to his grandparents. "Okay, then."

"Okay, then," Snow concurs and then both she and David are sandwiching him in a tight hug. "Letters. I expect lots of them. About everything. Anything. I just want to hear from you."

"Promise."

He breaks away, then turns to Hook and extends his hand to him. "You'll do incredible things," Hook tells him as their hands connect. Suddenly becoming quiet and thoughtful, he says, "Don't let life take that from you. No matter what, Henry, keep yourself true."

"I will," Henry assures him. "I don't fear life. I've got too much here to fear it."

"Yes, you do." Then, grinning, his bravado returning, "And worry not, lad, I'll take care of your moms."

"You wish," Regina snarks as she and Zelena step outside as well, four-year-old Robin holding her mother's hand. "They wanted to say goodbye to you as well," she informs Henry.

"Cool," he nods, and then he's sweeping his cousin up into his arms, and tickling her and she's laughing and howling and he kisses her cheeks, and she just giggles louder at him. When he lets her go, he looks up at Zelena and says, "No blowing shit up or siccing monkeys on anyone."

"It's been at least six months since the last time I did that," Zelena sighs impatiently.

"Uh huh." He reaches over and hugs her, and isn't surprised when Zelena holds on a bit tighter.

Because the only one more surprised than his mother is about having the family she now has is Zelena, and years have passed since that was in question. Still, she holds on tight when she can.

And to her, he does say quietly, "Take care of her."

Because there's nothing Zelena wants more than to be the one looked at to protect her family.

To protect her baby sister.

So she chuckles and says, "Of course," and then Henry is moving away.

"I guess that's it," he nods, and maybe there are tears in his eyes.

New beginnings are wonderful, but also sad, because something else has to end.

And only his family is dorky enough to make it all worse with a cheesy group hug.

Snow White, Prince Charming, Captain Hook, the Wicked Witch, the Savior and the Evil Queen all sharing a massive family group hug with the Author; it's a weird knock-knock joke.

But it's his knock-knock joke, and his fingers bend as he holds on to all of them.

When he steps away, he wipes tears away, and then he's down the steps towards his car.

Needing a moment to collect himself before the next goodbye.

* * *

 _ **then**_ _ **.**_

She's spent far too much time in hospitals for her liking.

Mother, father both dead when she was very young.

Older sister overdosed in a dirty bathroom.

Her own head injury years ago (though she doesn't really remember that one).

Trev falling off a ladder at work and hurting his back, and his subsequent painkiller overdose a few months later.

And, of course, her own...reasons for needing medical assistance.

Too much time spent here, and even waiting on someone who she has no stake in is making Elizabeth anxious. Of course, her feelings are nothing compared to the worry on Lucy's face.

"You hungry?" Elizabeth asks, sitting down next to Lucy in the hard-plastic chairs. They've been here for three hours already, and had gotten a few updates ("he's conscious and doing well" and "we just have a few more things we want to check out"), but it's all just going so very slow.

It occurs to her that this had all started when Lucy and her father had been trying to get dinner.

"Kind of," Lucy admits.

"Okay, then how about we wander down to the cafeteria and see if they have anything." When she sees Lucy about to protest, she quickly adds, "We'll bring it back. Only be gone a minute."

"Okay," Lucy allows, glancing back at the white metal doors leading back to the ER. No one seems terribly panicked or worried about her father, but during the three hours that they've been here, they've seen several extremely dramatic situations pass them by, and well, she's just a little girl, and in this case, she's the daughter of two storytellers. It's a perfect kind of disaster.

But it's also an opportunity.

So Elizabeth says as they walk into the cafeteria and up to the counter, "Tell me a story."

"What kind of story?"

"Any kind you'd like," Elizabeth replies. She gestures towards pieces of pizza sitting on the hotplate, the grease and oil dripping down from them. "You good with pepperoni?"

"Yeah," Lucy nods. Then, glancing over at Elizabeth. "My dad writes about the Evil Queen a lot."

"Like Snow White and the Evil Queen?" Elizabeth asks, lifting an eyebrow as she hands over her debit card. She has a moment of pause, a moment of realizing that she's just making things a whole lot worse, but thanks to not having completed her shift, she doesn't have any cash.

And well, Trev's going to be pissed, anyway.

"Yeah. She was a hero. Just like my dad is."

"The Evil Queen was a hero?" Elizabeth laughs, shaking her head as she thinks about the realities of life and how outside of fiction, there's no such thing as heroes and villains. There's only waking up and figuring out how to survive, and then maybe one day, you just don't. "Your dad has quite the imagination." She takes the receipt from the cashier and quickly signs it.

"Elizabeth R. Carson," Lucy observes, peering over the counter.

"My middle name is Reina. It means – "she chuckles darkly, morosely. "Queen."

"It's pretty."

"Thank you. Here, take a napkin." She offers one over, takes one for herself, and then starts the walk back up the stairs to the waiting room. "How old are you, Lucy?"

"I'll be ten in five months."

"Ten's a good age," Elizabeth muses as she pushes the door open so they can walk back into the large open semi-bustling waiting room. She frowns as she tries to come up with her own memories of being that young, finding them difficult to pull forward, almost shadows in the back of her mind. This is true with most of her life before the last decade or so, unfortunately.

The aftermath of a car accident she'd suffered a few months before she'd met Trev.

She likes to think that explains everything.

Only, she knows it doesn't.

There's no explaining away the shitty hand that life seems to keep dealing her.

Deciding to change the subject, Elizabeth says, "So tell me about this…Evil Queen."

"Well, her actual name was –"

"Lucy."

They turn together (which must be quite the visual, Elizabeth thinks, her fingers gripping the greasy crust of the slice of pizza she has) to see Henry walking towards them, smiling.

"Hi," he says softly, scratching the back of his head almost self-consciously.

"Daddy!"

She's in his arms a moment later, clutching at him, burying her head into his shirt.

"Hey, hey, my sweet little one, it's okay. It's okay. I'm okay." He kisses the top of her hair and hugs her close to him, his eyes drifting close in a way which makes Elizabeth just stare in awe.

Not too long ago, she'd very much wanted and even tried for a child of her own, but nature had decided that she wasn't fit to be a parent, and adoption was too prohibitively expensive (that and Trev had been emphatically against the idea of taking in "someone else's fuck-up".

It'd been a terrible heartbreak, but then like all things, she'd pushed it away and moved on.

Telling herself that she and Trev would have been terrible parents, anyway.

Thinking maybe some poor little unborn soul had dodged a hell of a bullet.

"You scared me," Lucy tells her father, and then sharply punches him on the shoulder.

He chuckles and mock rubs at his shoulder. "Ow." Then, looking up, he smiles warmly at Elizabeth, who is still watching father and daughter interact with soft almost needy eyes.

Eyes which change and harden the moment Henry's land on her. "You took care of her?"

"Least I could do since you passed out at my table," Elizabeth lobs back, going for banter even as she suddenly feels extremely anxious and uncomfortable under the strength of Henry's gaze. This young man – Henry Mills, she'd been informed by Lucy earlier in the evening – is looking at her like she's something amazing to him, perhaps even something special. It's terrifying.

It makes _no_ sense at all.

She figures it has to do with whatever resemblance she has to his likely long dead mother.

He likely means his smile well, kindly, but this whole damn night has been a complication.

She needs to be getting home.

Maybe Trev will have already passed out, and they can talk about this in the morning.

When he's calmer and might be willing to listen.

She forces a smile in return, "Have they released you?"

"They have. Nothing bad on the scans. Docs think I just forgot to eat today, and ironically, it caught up with me at dinner," Henry answers, chuckling wryly. Then, growing serious and almost intense, "Speaking of which, I know it's been a weird night and all, but can I –"

She cuts him off sharply, perhaps even harshly, lifting her hand and running it through her hair, but making sure he sees her wedding ring. "I really need to be getting home. My...my husband..." she trails off, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.

Like she's somehow letting this boy down.

Which is absolutely _fucking_ ridiculous.

"You're married." It's a statement, and he seems upset in an almost unnerving way.

"Ye…yes," she stammers, her thumb rubbing at the band. She feels like a bit of a coward right now, falling back on a marriage which frequently feels like she's suffocating, but in her line of business, getting hit on by men with only one intention is a daily thing, and if flashing them the band will get them to back off, then she's willing to do what she needs to. "I should be going."

"Right, yeah, of course you do," he replies, the word barely a whisper. He shifts anxiously from foot to foot, looking like he wants to something important, perhaps even explosive, but then his shoulders are sagging and he says instead, "Thank you for…taking care of my daughter."

"Glad I could help," Elizabeth answers, then drops down low so that she's at eye-level with Lucy. For a moment, it's too much, and Henry has to turn away. Because this woman doesn't know why his mother had always done that, and he wonders if she knows why she is now.

"Thanks for the pizza," Lucy says. "And staying with me."

"It was my pleasure. You're a very special girl," Elizabeth tells her, and realizes she means it.

Swallowing against her discomfort, she stands up, nods at Henry, and quickly turns to leave.

"Have you always worked at that diner?" Henry asks suddenly.

She turns, "Excuse me?"

"Have you always…have you been working at that diner for a…for a while?"

"A couple years now," Elizabeth answers, her fingers anxiously scratching the fabric of her skirt. "Why?"

He nods his head, trying to absorb the reality that his lost mother had been working just down the street from his apartment for several years. "No…no reason. Thanks again. _Elizabeth_."

She stares at him for a long time, familiar brown eyes boring into his green ones in an unfamiliar way. Finally, she turns and walks away, not making a sound on the tiled floor.

Lucy asks, "You think she's my grandma, don't you?"

Henry reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing it tight, "I know she is."

* * *

 _ **before**_

"Hey, anyone here?" Henry asks as he steps into the shop, moving around a magically sealed wooden crate. It'd been found deep in the back of one of the mines, and so far, his mother and Gold have been approaching it with caution, suggesting that they don't like the feel of it.

Regina wants to light it on fire, Emma wants to open it, Zelena wants to play with it…

Gold wants nothing to do with it beyond storing it and keeping an eye on it.

Which is why for now, here it sits, warily watched until they can figure out what to do with it.

"Henry!" Belle calls out, stepping through the curtain and wrapping him up into her arms. For a small woman, she's strong and she hugs with gusto. "Are you all packed up and ready to go?"

"Yeah, my moms are right behind me, and then it's off to Boston."

"How exciting," Belle gushes.

"When mom and gramps finally figure out how to break…whatever it is that keeping all of you here, I expect you to come visit," Henry tells her. "There are libraries…everywhere."

"I think you can count on her eventually taking you up on that invitation," Gold says as he steps out into the front, his near black suit impeccable as always, a blue tie giving it a bit of color.

"Is Gideon finally down?" Belle asks him. Then to Henry, "You know how it is."

"Nap-time," Henry laughs, intimately aware of all of the weird habits of his cousins and uncles (it's still so weird to him that he has two uncles and is older than both by over fourteen years).

"He's sleeping," Gold chuckles. "Or so he's pretending to be for the moment."

Belle rolls her eyes. A look at the two men, and how even though they've gotten much closer over the last four years, there at times still exists a degree of separation and awkwardness which neither one of them quite knows how to bridge. She sighs, realizing that if they'd going to have this moment, it's going to have to happen with just them. "I'll go deal with him. Henry –"

"I'm going to need your help," Henry tells her. "I'm going to be in way over my head."

"No, you're not," Belle counters. "You're the smartest boy I've ever met. You're ready for to take on the world. College is going to seem like…just a fun way to learn wonderful new things."

"I hope so."

"I know so." She kisses him on the cheek, gives him one last hug, and then disappears back behind the curtain again, leaving Henry and his grandfather by themselves in the front.

Finally, "Mom said you wanted me to drop by?"

"Yes," Gold confirms. "For two reasons. First – "he stops short, smiling awkwardly, a hedging admission of just how hard it's been for him to come to terms with quiet peace and the idea of having family around him. "I'm proud of you. For everything you've become. It hasn't been easy, and you've had a thousand chances to lose your way, but never have. I'm proud of you, and I believe – I know – that your father would be enormously proud of you today as well."

"Thanks, Gramps," Henry replies, and were it anyone else, he'd probably go for a hug.

But his grandfather isn't the touchiest of people, and Henry knows that there's more.

Gold nods. "The other reason is, I have something for you. Something I hope will serve you well in your travels and adventures." He steps behind the counter, and bends, returning a moment later with a wood box. "I know that you and your mothers agreed to leave your Author's pen behind…" he smiles slightly at that, allowing for the honesty that he might not have agreed to the same righteous choice. "But there are other ways for you to keep telling the stories you were meant to tell." When he opens it, Henry sees that it's a typewriter. Not unlike the one August had once carried with him, this one is hand-carved and delicate, its keys made of ivory.

"Wow," Henry murmurs, running his hand over the box.

"It doesn't need ink or replacement cartridges."

"It –"

"Magic struggles to survive beyond Storybrooke, but five years ago, you proved that it could, anyway. You destroyed it to stop me from using it for my own selfish means, but then you did the impossible and brought it back with your hope and faith, and now, it's out there. Not as it is in here, but enough for this to work." He pats the box. "It's enchanted to tell the stories of your heart." He lightly taps Henry's chest. "It and not the pen is your strongest tool, Henry."

"What kind of stories?"

"The ones which need to be told when they need to be told."

He's about to ask for more information – or perhaps any information at all – but then the door is opening, and the bell is ringing and his two mothers are entering, already in mid argument.

"We go until we're almost empty, Regina; that's how road-trips work."

"Considering the ones we've taken, Swan, I'm not sure your ideas about them are any good."

"Moms," Henry says, humoring and amused.

"Hi, honey," Regina says, her attention immediately on him.

"You about ready, Kid?" Emma asks.

"Yeah." He gestures to the typewriter. "From gramps."

"Is that August's typewriter?" Emma queries, running her fingers over the box.

"No, but Mr. Booth did assist me in the design and build of it," Gold allows. His fingers fish into the box, and then he's removing a simple white card with August's elegant script on it.

It says simply: _For the words which must come._

"Mom?" Henry says, looking at Emma.

"I'll make sure to pass along your thanks." She nods at Gold, acknowledgement of gratitude; they're to a very large degree even less friends than Hook and Regina are, but they have all learned to co-exist with each other, and they've learned how to come together when needed.

Even when that need is simply to say goodbye.

"We should be going," Regina urges. "We have to build in time to walk for gas after your other mother inevitably causes us to run out of it because she wants to drive until near empty."

"Such a drama queen," Emma says with a roll of her eyes. She reaches over and lifts up the box, gauging it for a second to check its weight and then pulling it into her chest so as to carry it.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Regina retorts, opening the door for Emma.

"Of course you are, Your Majesty," Emma snarks back at her as they pass through it together, the door loudly slamming shut in their wake leaving Henry and Gold alone once more.

"My dad would be proud of you, too," Henry says the moment they're gone.

Gold says nothing for a moment, just looks back towards the back of his shop where his wife and son are waiting for him. Finally, he inclines his head forward, "I very much hope so." He pats Henry just above the heart one more time, just for emphasis. "Always from here."

"Promise. I'll see you in a few weeks, Gramps," Henry says, and then he's hugging Gold, anyway – not tight, but still enough – and Gold is allowing it, his mind on the son he'll always miss.

When the door closes with the musical twinkle of a bell behind Henry a few moments later, he finds himself thinking that yes, today is a day when Bae would have been proud of him.

* * *

 _ **then**_ _ **.**_

Henry sits beside her bed until she falls asleep, telling her the stories he remembers well.

The ones about a boy growing up in a magical town with two moms and a fairytale family.

One mom has been found, he believes.

He knows that's her.

Something has happened to her – changed her – but it's still her.

He's just got to figure out a way to get through to her – to bring her back to herself.

There _has_ to be a way.

But first…first, he needs to know.

He needs to see if finding her changed things. Had changed _home_.

So he waits until Lucy falls asleep, and he kisses her on the forehead – and holds it there, thinking about all of the good things in his life, the reasons to always fight – and then he's pulling her blankets up over and checking her nightlight and then stepping into the hallway.

He makes his way over to his desk and lifts the lid of his laptop.

And grins.

Because there, on the screen, is the real-time satellite view of where Storybrooke is.

Where it hasn't been for almost a decade now.

A year ago, it had flickered into view again.

Clearly not solid, but still there, as if caught somehow between worlds.

And now…there it is, shimmering, the green sign translucent but still there.

He reaches out and touches the screen, tracing his fingers across the town line as it fades in and out, blinking into existence and then out of it again, but then in a burst of color, returning again.

It's then, as he's watching the line come and go, that Henry hears the typing sound. Turning his head, he looks at his typewriter – a last gift from his grandfather before he's left Storybrooke.

"What?" he murmurs, and then steps closer, watching as the paper in it moves.

He'd spent the whole day at this typewriter, getting nowhere, the words refusing to come.

But there are words there now, and he feels something tight in his chest, near his heart.

Not pain exactly…more like…effort?

His breath catching enough to almost make him feel dizzy, Henry leans over the typewriter as soon as it ceases typing, and pulls the paper free, his eye scanning rapidly over the words.

Words, which give him his second shock of the night:

"The woman sits up in her bed, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She stares at the far wall of her cell, her eyes glassing as she considers the day ahead. More of the same. Sighing, tired, and resigned to this being her fate, she falls back to her pillow, thinking of the family she no longer has. To the identity she no longer has even though she remembers exactly who she actually is. Ignoring the doubting words of her cell-mate, she places her hand over her heart, and says the same words she's been saying for almost ten years now, "I am Emma Swan. I am Emma Swan. I _am_ Emma Swan"

 _ **:D**_


	3. Two

_**A/N: Apologies for the delay - con season.  
**_

 _Warnings: Allusions to domestic physical abuse, violence, anxiety, some language and a couple mentions of Hook and CS._

 _I want to remind everyone that this story will feature some pretty harsh real-world situations including physical and emotional abuse within a marriage (which is already dub-con due to the how/why) so if these things are trigger, you might want to stay away from this. I assure you that should it ever go from allusions to graphic, heavy warnings will be presented for the sake of the reader. **  
**_

 _ **Let me know your thoughts, and please, enjoy!**_

* * *

 _ **before.**_

It's a fairly short drive. Only a little over four hours down I-95. It's the kind of drive you don't even really need a partner for, but Regina insists on driving with Henry (it's his first time going more than across town in this car, and she's still grumbling about how they should have gotten him something more sensible than the old Mustang). Emma, in her newly repainted Bug, is driving right behind them, occasionally coming up alongside them and sometimes moving ahead or falling behind, depending on her boredom levels.

Which, Regina has to admit, Emma's been managing to control thus far.

Somewhere around the halfway point through New Hampshire, that all changes, and Emma's restless nature finally wins out enough for her to decide to flip things around.

It starts with a loud squawk from a radio inside the glove compartment in the Mustang. When Regina opens it (while side-eyeing an not at all surprised Henry), she finds an old walkie-talkie there, one of the ones that Henry and Emma had used during Emma's first days in Storybrooke.

"Madam Mayor," Emma says over the radio, sounding like she's had too much coffee. It doesn't take much for Regina to imagine Emma's fingers rapidly dancing across the steering wheel, her restless energy bleeding out.

"You know how to use that?" Henry asks, glancing over at Regina and the way she's regarding the walkie-talkie with almost a degree of suspicion. "You push the button on the side there."

"I know," she says dryly, an eyebrow lifted at him as if to remind him that she's not unaware of technology. Pushing the button, she replies, "What is it, Sheriff? Do you need to pee again? Perhaps slow up on the slushies, then?"

"Hilarious, but no, not this time," Emma replies, her tone chipper. "Tell the kid he drives like my mother."

Regina looks over at Henry and pushes the button so he can respond. "I have Mom in here. You try to drive like a speed demon when your mom is acting like every extra MPH is simply tragic."

"Oh, so you're using me?" Regina asks, mock wounded at the accusation.

"Wait for it," he replies with a smirk.

And he's right, of course, because then Emma is laughing. "Please. Your mom might pretend that she's a well-behaved driver who has never ever gone faster than the posted signs, but when she's behind the wheel, she drives the Benz like she thinks traffic laws are beneath Her Royal Majesty. Every accident I've ever had in Storybrooke has been because of her."

"Lies," Regina replies, huffing in feigned indignation. "Terribly libelous lies."

"Truth, and you know it."

"You two are the worst," Henry sighs, pushing just a little more pressure down on the pedal; obediently, the Mustang revs up, its rebuilt engine at first rumbling and then purring.

Regina lifts an eyebrow at him (which he pointedly ignores, though he suspects that his growing smile gives him away), then speaks into the walkie-talkie, "Is there a point to all of this, Swan?"

"Of course, I see an open road. There's a rest stop about five miles up. We need to refuel."

"So you _do_ need to pee again."

"No, we need gas. Getting to pee is just…something else to do. And getting there, well…"

"Mm. This sounds like a set-up. Were these radios left in here specifically for this?"

"No, you overly suspicious paranoid weirdo –"

"How dare you," Regina retorts, but its mild and amused, and Henry just shakes his head.

"The radios were put in there so even if we lost cell service, we could still communicate."

"Sure."

"Yes, sure. Now how about it? Five miles. I win, and we have dinner at somewhere fun tonight."

"Fun is relative," Regina reminds her.

"No lighting people on fire."

"It's been years since I've done that. It was fun, though. In any case, I accept your terms."

"That doesn't sound good for me," Emma notes, and they can practically see her frowning.

"Because it's not." She brings the walkie-talkie close to her mouth, her voice lowering. "If we win, you have to get a big girl car. Something that actually runs without a jump every two days."

"Ooh," Henry puts in, grinning at his mom, and nodding in appreciation of her gamesmanship. She smiles back at him, large and beaming, thrilled by his approval. "Careful, Emma," he warns.

"Please," Emma responds. "Your mom might drive like a crazy old bat –"

"Maybe I'll light you on fire," Regina grumbles. "That would be fun."

"You'd miss me," Emma retorts. "Anyway, I think this is the definition of a sucker's bet."

"She's intentionally goading me, isn't she?" Regina queries.

"Of course, she is," Henry laughs.

"Of course, I am," Emma echoes, sounding so very pleased with herself.

"You think you know me so well," Regina drawls.

"I do. For example, I know that the moment the kid hits 'peeling rubber' speed, you'll freak."

"We'll see."

"Yes, we will. You know, I'm thinking chili dogs covered in cheese and onions," Emma states, and then the Bug is surging past the Mustang, surprisingly spritely considering its years.

"Destroy her," Regina tells Henry, eyes narrowed on the road ahead.

"No freaking out," he tells her.

"You have my word. _Destroy_. Her."

"You got it," he agrees, and then he's hitting the pedal as hard as he can.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

She finds him sleeping on the couch, his body sprawled out, his half-opened laptop against his chest, the battery in it depleted. There are papers scattered around, thousands of words typed in shimmery silver print on them. She recognizes the print as the bizarre kind that comes uniquely from her father's weird typewriter; and so she lifts one of the printer papers up, knowing that it likely has words upon it that means a great deal to her dad. She's about to read from it when she hears the shift of a body on the couch, and instinctively, she reaches for the laptop on Henry's lap, stopping it from falling to the ground (again). "Dad," she says softly.

"Luce?" Henry mumbles, blinking and then rubbing at his eyes, and then his face, his fingers finding the rough grizzle dark there. His gaze finds hers almost immediately, and he startles; because his little girl - typically so light and bright - looks terribly worried. "Everything okay?"

"You fell asleep out here instead of in your own bed," she tells him. "I know you think that Elizabeth is my grandma, but -" she trails off because she knows her father, and knows how he is when he's chasing a problem; he defines the word stubborn. But he's her dad, and right now, all that matters is that he's here and not going anywhere. She's already lost her mother, and though she doesn't remember her as much as she'd like to, she knows enough to understand that what she'd lost is the kind of thing that leaves a wound within you. The nature of that wound is well beyond her years, but the memory of soft eyes and a gentle touch still linger.

"I saw some of the stories," Henry tells her, his voice quiet. Times like this one, he almost thinks himself insane to be having this kind of conversation with his prepubescent daughter. It is mad, really, because what he and that typewriter can do together are beyond the rules of the world that they live in. But they're not beyond the rules of the town that he had grown up within.

And the stories that had come to him last night…they change everything.

Which, Lucy Mills could care less about.

She shakes her head. "You need to rest, Dad. The doctor said you're exhausted, and you need sleep." She frowns deeply; she doesn't really know what that means, but the doctor had been quite insistent about his words all the same (she'd heard him telling her father that collapsing isn't the kind of thing a person should just brush off), and since she knows her father won't choose to slow down all on his own, she's decided that perhaps convincing him to falls on her.

Before she can get too far on this thought, though, Henry is rising up from the couch, a hand on the arm of it to steady himself against a wave of vertigo that overtakes him (he always feels vaguely sickly after getting the book-related visions, a problem that has gotten significantly worse due to the large gaps between getting them that have occurred over the last few years since Storybrooke disappeared). "I'm fine," he assures her, his eyes glassing over as he finds himself thinking about his own mother and how easily those words had fallen from her lips, even when it'd been obvious to everyone (especially him and Emma) that she'd been crumbling. Despite her stiff spine, fierce eyes and steely almost unbreakable resolve, she'd rarely been fine. And she's not fine now - she's a thousand ugly miles from fine these days.

Neither one of his mothers are fine.

He means to change that for all of them.

Which brings him back to the scattered papers around the room – and the one in his daughter's hand. She sees him looking at it, and after a moment of obvious reluctance, she extends her hand and offers it to him. "Who is Emma Nolan?" Lucy asks as she sees him reading from it.

He doesn't reply at first; instead, he's skimming over the silvery print that seems to be rising up and off the paper. The words there remind him of the stories that had come to him the night before, his eyes turning milky white as his brain had filled with the dark and devastating tale of a woman whose life had collapsed in the time it had taken for a bullet to shatter a heart). Finally, he says, "A really twisted way for the curse to hide my mother in plain sight."

"Grandma Emma?" she asks, and then tilts her head. "Nolan -"

"Was the name my grandparents were given when they came to this world," Henry answers absently, his eyes still on the paper. After a second, he looks up at his daughter. "But Emma was never a Nolan. She was always Swan. Even after she married Hook -" his eyes close as wave of sadness crashes through him, one of the terrible stories from the previous night echoing horribly through his fatigued mind- "My mom still kept her own name. Only ever that."

Lucy looks back at him, not understanding the importance of names.

Not like an adult does.

Especially not like someone who had chosen their own surname as an act of defiance and hope for her future as Emma had done might.

He likes to think that Emma would be thankful for Lucy's lack of understanding.

Maybe that means that amongst a thousand things done wrong, he'd done one thing right.

"Dad –"

"Kiddo, I need you to get ready for school," Henry cuts in.

"I don't –"

"You do." He sighs. "I'm already a shit-show, Luce; least I can do is make sure you're not."

It sounds good. It sounds right.

But she knows her dad.

"Where are you going?" she asks him, her eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"After you drop me off at school. Where are you going?"

He laughs. "You're way too much like me," he tells her. "Same pain in the ass that I was."

"Elizabeth or Emma?"

"If I say neither?"

"We don't lie to each other," she states solemnly, dark eyes wide.

"No," he agrees, "We don't. Okay…okay." He runs his hands through his hair, his anxiety spiking as he thinks about the day ahead (and tries not to think about the anti-anxiety pills he has hidden away in the far back of the medicine cabinet in his bathroom; the ones he takes far more than he'd like to, but has come to a strange place of peace with it over the many long years). "I want to go see…my mom." He nods at his own words, because the idea of calling her Elizabeth is absurd to him. "And then I need to figure out how to bring my other mom home."

"I can help."

"No, you can be a kid, and learn algebra."

She scowls at him. "I already know algebra better than you do."

"Probably true," he agrees. "But you're still going to school."

"Dad, that's not how we do things," she insists. "We're a team."

"Yeah, we are. You and me, Kiddo, always a team – the best team. But I'm also your dad, and I know that I haven't always been very good at that. Most of the time, I've been terrible at it –"

"No –"

He shakes his head to stop her protests. "I _know_ I have. That's going to change, though. I'm going to make it all better for all of us. I don't know how yet, Luce; but I am going to fix all of this." He cups her face, and brings her to him, lightly kissing her forehead. "I love you."

"Dad –"

Moving away from her, he tells her, "I need you clear of this. Promise me, you'll stay clear."

"This isn't how we do things," she tells him again.

"Promise me," he repeats, a kind of frantic energy to him.

Because eighteen years ago, he'd been a ten-year-old boy who hadn't listened to anyone when they'd told him to stop; and though his faith in the unimaginable had changed a thousand lives, with jaded and tired adult eyes, Henry can now understand just how wrong it could have gone.

It's part of why he, too, has been hiding out in plain sight for the last ten years of his life.

Still Henry Mills at home, but otherwise a ghost, even in perfect view of everyone.

"Lucy," he says again, his voice growing harder in a way she seldom if ever hears.

"I promise," she says quietly, and then she's hugging him tight; and cuddling into his strong arms as they come around her, clutching her to him. "But, you have to promise me –"

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells her as they once again separate (but not too much, and though she's ten and too old to carry, his hands find her shoulders; and he's squeezing her gently, trying to find a way to reassure her); and his heart hurts because he can still remember holding Lucy's hand as a priest had prayed over her mother's casket. "I'm making it better."

She doesn't know how to respond to his strange and incoherent – to her, anyway - words, because she doesn't understand why his eyes are wild and wet. Certainly, she's heard a thousand stories about her grandmothers, and she's seen her dad's obsession with his hometown over the years, but its' never been like this, and he's never been like this.

But he's here, and he's smiling at her, and he's promising her that everything will be okay.

So, she nods her head, and requests that he, "Say hi to Elizabeth for me."

* * *

 _ **before.** _

"She's going to be in a bad mood all night," Henry grouses, glancing over at his mother as she shuffles her feet and jams her hands into her pockets, all the while wearing an expression of severe displeasure and misery. The front of her gray tee-shirt is slightly damp, owing to the exertion of carrying multiple boxes up several flights of stairs, but that's not why she's upset.

Her mood has nothing to do with boxes, and everything to do with losing the car race.

"She'll get over it," Regina replies, rubbing her hands against the denim of her black jeans, the late summer humidity dampening her palms. "She's needed a new car for a long while now."

"Mom."

"She lost, Henry. It's important that she pay her debts."

" _Mom_."

"Don't use that tone on me. Like I'm the bad guy here." Years ago, a statement like that would have come with a thousand pounds worth of painful weight and trauma thanks to her past as the Evil Queen, but now so much time has passed that they really are just strange little words.

"You know that's not what I was suggesting. No one is the bad guy, but –"

"If I let her off the –" she swirls her hand and rolls her eyes dramatically – "Hook every single time she managed a convincing pout, I'd never win. And you know how much I enjoy winning."

"Yeah, I know, but the Bug is her baby," Henry reminds her.

"The Bug is a piece of junk."

"You like the Bug. Whether you want to admit it or not."

"I'd like a sensible Honda Accord a lot more."

He fixes her with a knowing look, a slight smirk on his handsome face. Because this is the going through the motions and being a responsible adult part of her, and while she is absolutely the most responsible one amongst them, he knows her well enough to know that she has no use for a vehicle without personality. Otherwise, she wouldn't still be driving her old Mercedes.

"Can I at least let her sweat about it a little longer?" Regina grumbles.

"Oh, I've already been sweating," Emma states as she comes over, her red leather jacket slung haphazardly over her shoulder, her mostly bared arms glistening with perspiration. "Thanks to his five hundred boxes of crap and that typewriter that weighs like a thousand pounds."

Regina turns to look at her, and if Henry didn't know better (and he'd really like to not think about that), he'd almost think that some kind of appreciation of what she sees flashes across his mom's features before she's affecting something more bemused and tolerating towards Emma. "If you're done complaining, how about we take our son out for a nice dinner?"

"I suppose you want something fancy?" Emma asks. "Since you cheated."

"Excuse me?"

"Since when do you let the kid drive a hundred miles an hour?"

"Oh, guys," Henry mutters, dropping his face into his palms. Then, looking up at them, his face red with the kind of embarrassment that only a teenager can manage, he says, "You know what? I'm going to go up to my room, and you know, check in with my roommate because he's up there and…and I should say hi." He gestures towards them. "And could you two for maybe like ten seconds stop...doing that thing you do. Because people are staring, Moms."

"They're not –" Regina looks around, and sure enough, there are several young boys and girls watching them, like they're seeing a married couple arguing in front of them. Not two women, just a normal every day couple, she realizes. She supposes that she should be pleased that here in the heart of New England, the assumption of two women being a couple isn't something that causes an unusual fuss…even if they're not remotely together.

Regina shakes her head at this, almost laughing to herself at the absurd thought of this.

And then she grabs Emma by the arm and yanks her a few feet away, allowing Henry to meander away and up the stairs, presumably so he can pretend he's unaware of their squabbling. "Are you going to sulk all night over losing?" Regina demands, hands on her hips.

"I'm not sulking."

"No? Then what would you call this five-year-old tantrum you're putting on?"

"I'm not…I love that car, Regina. I know it's stupid and –"

"Emma, I _know_ ," Regina replies quietly, and then her hand is over Emma's wrist, lightly squeezing. "I was never going to make you give it up. I know what it means to you."

" _Oh_."

"Try to have some faith in me after all this time, would you, please?" Her eyes meet Emma's, and there's just the briefest flicker of hurt showing before she plasters over it with a smile.

But Emma still sees it.

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I…a win is a win." They're feeble words, but suddenly this moment – like so many other ones between them over the last few years – feels loaded with history.

And with all of the emotion and understanding that their history has brought them.

"It is," Regina agrees. "And my car could use a good wash. Every Friday for say…a month."

Emma laughs, loud and real. "Seriously?"

"I'll even let you park your yellow death-trap nearby so it can see what water looks like."

"You're an ass," Emma says, but she's grinning and so is Regina, and it's yet another moment.

A wonderfully warm and -

"Good, we're done arguing," Henry says suddenly, appearing right behind both of them.

At the same time, they both correct him with, "We weren't arguing."

"Sure, bickering. Whatever. I'm hungry. And eighteen. And…it's our last night."

"No, it's not," Regina says immediately, the mirth dropping away from her. "It's not our last. We're going to have a hundred more family dinners." Her eyes are wide and worried, needing.

And this time it's Emma's hand on her arm. "He means just before school starts."

"Yeah," Henry confirms. "Just before school, Mom."

"I…" Regina sighs, her hands anxiously fidgeting together before breaking apart so that one can settle over her belly, her palm flat. "I just…I don't like the word 'last'."

"Then we won't use it," Emma declares. "It's just dinner, and I want chili dogs."

That works; Regina turns and glares at her. "Need I remind you that you lost?"

"Need you? Probably not. Must you? Yes, of course, Your Majesty."

"And yet," Regina answers dryly. "You still think you're getting chili dogs."

"I still think you'll love them." She looks down suddenly, noticing that her phone is buzzing. "Killian," she tells them, and then she's typing out a quick message telling him that they're all going out for dinner, and she'll call him either later on or sometime tomorrow morning. She reads a couple more lines, replies with a "love you, too" and then puts her cell away.

"Everything all right?" Regina asks, her tone careful not to show the annoyance that she actually feels at Hook's intrusion on her time with this strange little makeshift family of theirs.

It's perfectly normal for him to have checked in on them – spouses and loved ones do that.

But…this is their time, and she finds that she very much wants to keep it…theirs.

"All is well," Emma confirms. "He's going to go out fishing with my dad tonight."

"Then come on, Moms," Henry urges, and then he's looping an arm around both of them, and he could probably ask both of them to jump off a bridge, and right now, they would agree. "Let's go eat chili dogs and be merry." He nudges Regina's shoulder. "You know you wanna."

"Fine, but I'd better like it."

"That's the spirit," Emma grins.

The comment earns her a roll of the eyes from both mother and son.

As the three of them walk down the street together, arm-in-arm.

Emma thinks that, perhaps, she's never been happier than she is here in this moment.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

His hand thumping against the pocket of his leather jacket, he steps into the diner, a large if not entirely sincere smile crossing his face as he greets the young man standing at the counter.

Who responds with, "Dude, aren't you the guy who passed out last night?"

"I am," Henry agrees, shuffling his feet anxiously, and wishing that he'd taken one of his pills before he'd come over here. "I wanted to say thank you to Elizabeth for all of her help."

"Bummer; she called in sick this morning. Probably a long night."

"A long night?" Henry queries, his brow furrowing.

"Heard she was at the hospital with you the whole time."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Do you, uh, know when she works next?"

"She works almost every day, man. Lizzie's a beast."

"Lizzie?" Henry repeats incredulously.

The kid winces, like he knows that he's said something he shouldn't. "Don't let her know I called her that. She hates it." Seeming strangely uncomfortable, he nods towards a table. "You want one or you just in for her? Because like I said, she's not here, and she's not coming in today."

"I'll take a table –" he trails off, indicating that the young man should supply his name.

"Johnny."

"Johnny," Henry nods. "Something in the back. I'm waiting on a call."

"Cool. That's Elizabeth's usual section, but Gil is running it today. Go on back."

"Thanks," Henry replies with his best attempt at a charming smile. Turning away from Johnny (who seems oddly happy to see him go), he makes his way towards the section where a young lean man with whispers of brownish-red facial hair is working. Presumably, this guy is Gil.

Henry clocks him almost immediately as a self-impressed over-talker.

Which…good.

Because Google had had almost nothing to say about Elizabeth Reina Carson.

But then, he hadn't expected it to, because this woman doesn't actually exist.

His mother does.

She just needs some help finding her way back to herself.

He's got a plan for that.

Several plans.

"Whoa, I hear you're the guy who fainted yesterday," Gil announces as he comes over to the table, his voice fast like maybe he's downed several cans of Red Bull one after another.

"I think I already had this conversation," Henry replies lightly, an eyebrow up.

"Yeah, sorry. It's just we don't get a lot of excitement around here. That was excitement."

"I bet. But sorry to say, I just forgot to eat." He motions to the menu in Gil's hand. "May I?"

"Right." He hands it over. "Uh, how about some coffee?"

"That'd be nice." He nods. "And some information."

"Information?"

"About Elizabeth. My kid and I really want to thank her for being there for us. I know she'll probably be in some time this week, but my daughter has something she wants to give her."

"Eh, you're best waiting for her to come in," Gil says. "Her old man doesn't like people around."

"Her…old man? You mean her husband?" Henry asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Dude is pretty intense. Elizabeth is cool, but best part of her being out is that he's not dropping in to check on her," Gil nods. And then he gets the same look on his fact that Johnny had had on his, like he knows that he shouldn't be saying these things to a guy who has wandered in off the street. "I'm going to go get your coffee started. I'll be back in a sec to get your order started."

Henry nods at him, watching as Gil quickly makes his exit, disappearing into the kitchen.

All the while wondering why it seems like no one here wants to say much about Elizabeth.

Maybe they're just being good co-workers.

Or maybe –

His phone rings, pulling him away from his darkening thoughts. A quick look down, and he sees the name "JB" on the screen. He taps the ACCEPT button, and says, "What did you find out?"

Eyes widening, he listens.

And then replies, "Her parole hearing is Friday? Okay, I want you representing her."

He drums his fingers against the table as he listens, looking up only when Gil returns with coffee. He nods a thank you to him, and then returns to listening, a scowl growing on his face **.**

"Look, can we agree that I pay you a shit-ton of money to take care of my interests?" Henry finally asks. He holds up the menu forGil and points to a club sandwich on it. He doesn't really have an appetite, but ordering something seems like the best way to keep Gil away for now.

"Everything on it?" Gil mouths.

Henry nods, and then Gil is gone. "Yeah, exactly, and let's be honest, JB, I'm a pretty low maintenance client outside of having you deal with my publishers and their whining about deadlines," Henry says into the phone. He laughs. "Okay, yes, I don't make that part easy on you, and I promise that I'll try to do better, but look, this is something different, and I'm telling you that I don't care how much it costs me. I want that woman – I want Emma Nolan - out of prison. Her hearing is Friday. You're the best. That's what she needs. That's what I need. Okay?"

There's another pause as he listens, his eyes closing as the stories from the previous night crash through his mind, visions of darkness and blood smearing every wall.

Finally, quietly, he says, "I'm going to go to see her. I know…I know the state doesn't know me as her family –" he swallows hard at that, a chill running through his body. "But she's mine."

He hangs up after that, dropping the phone to the table.

His hands come around to either side of the coffee cup, and then he's just staring at the wall.

Images and thoughts that are not his own running through his mind.

 _Confusion, rough hands, desperate pleas, and then an echoing shattering gunshot._

 _Sirens, a body bag, and steel cuffs_ that _scrape at her skin._

" _Was it all some kind of sick game? Did it go too far?"_

 _"This wasn't supposed to happen."_

" _Yeah, well, lady, it did. And now, you get to live with what you did."_

Swallowing hard, Henry allows his head to fall into his hands; his fingers crawling into his dark hair, his eyes closing as so many stories crash through his brain, assaulting his heart and mind.

He tries to focus on the reality that everyone he's been looking for is near to him again.

But for the time being, all he can see is just how far they have all fallen from where they were.

* * *

 _ **before.** _

Loaded down chili dogs, dark ale, and salsa with lime.

It's enough to give a person (especially Regina who already has a delicate stomach) indigestion, but it doesn't actually take all that much for Emma to convince Regina to give in to all three.

The dancing, well, that's something that was somewhat unexpected.

But they're at a college bar just off of campus, and the beer is flowing, and the music is loud, and so when Henry grabs both of their hands, and yanks them towards the floor while _Journey_ is playing, neither woman protests. As they have always done, they let their son lead them on.

"This is something I never thought I'd see," Emma comments as Henry dips Regina, and she spins around, taking Emma's hand and giving her a bit of a twirl. It's certainly not the first time that she's seen Regina buzzed, but it's probably the most enjoyable and enlightening time.

Or maybe just the most frivolously wonderful time.

Either way, Emma's loving it, and so when Regina spins her again, she goes with it.

"You know," Henry comments. "This might be why everyone thinks you two are together."

"You're the one who pulled both of us out here," Regina reminds him. And then looks at Emma. "And I will have you know that even if I never did get much in the way of formal training, I have always enjoyed…burning off some extra energy on a dance floor. I did it at your wedding."

She thinks she says this just to make a point to Henry.

Perhaps to herself as well.

Because Emma is married.

And she knows better than to let her mind run away from her with thoughts that have nowhere to go (she chooses to blame her anxiety over Henry going away for the resurgence of them).

Emma loves her husband, and she loves Emma so she's going to support…them.

No, _her_.

She's going to support Emma.

"We were under a curse. Or a spell. Or something. I'm still not clear on that," Emma notes.

Carefully (noticeably) side-stepping Henry's comment about them coming off like a couple.

"Blue Fucking Fairy," Regina grouses.

Then takes Henry's hand and lets him dip her, the two of them giggling when he almost drops her, and somehow manages to keep her up with the most spastic looking swirl ever done.

Emma laughs and shakes her head, wandering off the floor as the song ends. A few seconds later, Henry and Regina join her, both of them glowing and drenched with sweat.

Which, Emma, thinks, is quite the look for Regina.

Inwardly blaming Henry for even putting such a thought in her mind (though, if she's honest, it's far from the first time she's had it) Emma coughs and takes a deep swig from her mug.

And then holds it up, "To our kid," she says.

Henry lifts his root beer, and Regina is lifting her own beer mug up.

Three glasses clank together.

The song changes, and Henry says, "Ooh, I love this song."

He reaches for both of them, not yet ready to let go of them.

Morning will come soon, and with it, his next adventure.

He's excited beyond words for it.

But…it can wait.

For at least a few more hours.

He pulls his moms back onto the dance-floor, their laughter full of beer and chili.

Full of everything he has ever wanted in his life.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

It's Friday, and he's here again. They seem somewhat used to him by now even if they can't quite figure out why he's hanging around; he just needs to see Elizabeth, he assures them.

He really just wants to thank her.

That seems like enough for them, and so he lets them think whatever they'd like to.

Even if he's pretty sure that the thoughts some of them are having are…disturbing at best.

He doesn't care; all that matters is seeing her again.

It's been six days since he has, and his anxiety is almost off the charts.

Because she's called in four times, and even her co-workers seem unsettled by that.

"Hey," he says with a broad smile as he steps inside the diner, his dark hair plastered to his scalp by the icy cold rain blowing in off of the ocean; he takes a moment to reassure himself that Lucy had made it off to school warm and prepared for the storm that is coming in.

He reminds himself that they'd gone over her coming home from school and making herself dinner because he's likely to be out a bit later (hopefully only a few hours, he'd assured her, back before bedtime) than usual thanks to his drive to the correctional facility in Windham.

Emma's hearing is at three this afternoon.

By now, she knows that someone has paid for her to get better counsel, but he'd asked JB to not say anything about her mysterious benefactor; he figures that's something Emma needs to see with her own eyes. He'd have gone to see her days ago if not for the background check for visitors, but now that that's finally been cleared by the state, it's time to start fixing his family.

First things first…

"Henry," Johnny nods at him, an eyebrow lifted. "Same table as usual?"

"Yep."

"You're in luck," Johnny tells him. "Elizabeth's in today."

"She is?"

"Yep. Guess that means you can stop pretending you don't think this place sucks." He laughs at his own bad joke, and then gestures across the diner and over towards the far back of the diner "Word of warning, though: she's been in a bit of a mood today. You know how the ladies get."

"Right, ladies. Thanks." Glad to be getting away from Johnny, he starts towards the table he's been haunting for the last week – the table that sits smack in the middle of Elizabeth's zone.

Which, of course, is when he runs into Gil, who claps him on the back and says, "Ah, so you've heard." He wags his eyebrows and Henry briefly considers punching him, but then thinks better of it, and instead turns his head and looks towards row of tables where he finds his mother.

Or at least the woman he knows is his mother.

Who doesn't know that she's his mother.

Without even really acknowledging Gil, Henry makes his way across and drops himself into a booth right behind where Elizabeth is standing. Her back is still to him, her blue windbreaker dwarfing her small body, her dull lifeless brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail. He can see her drumming her short nails on the counter, waiting as the machine spits out a receipt for her.

Grabbing a credit card once the machine is done with it, she slowly walks over to the one other populated table in her section, and smiles at the man who is there as he takes the card from her. Her voice too high to be anything more than practiced dull professionalism, Elizabeth says, "See you tomorrow, Bobby," as the man stands up and makes his way out of the diner.

His heart pounding almost out of his chest, Henry watches as she turns towards him.

And stops.

Her eyes widen, and then they're both just staring at each other.

Each of them horrified.

As he sees the caked-on make-up on her face, and recognizes the lurking dark shadows beneath the heavy strokes of cover-up and blush, and as she sees the strange young man whose sudden appearance in her life had brought about one of the worst nights in her already awful life.

Her brown eyes lighting up in a way that makes him instinctively sit up; she stalks towards him, angry and shaking as she gestures violently towards him. "Go," she demands. "Go now."

Henry holds up hands in a show of desperate submission, the gesture meant to try to reassure her that he's of no threat to her, "Wait, wait! I just –"

"No, I don't care. I don't. You need to go."

He swallows, biting back on the desperate need to plead with her.

To call her "mom".

But she's standing half a foot from him, and the bruises under the make-up are unmistakable.

Faded, but still there.

"Hey, Elizabeth, everything okay over here?" Gil asks, over near the counter.

She looks up at him, seeming almost startled, and then she blushes in humiliation because – Henry can well guess – calling attention to herself is the last thing she wants to do. "Yeah, fine."

She turns away from Gil, and then she's starring at Henry. "Please," she says, almost inaudibly.

It's too much, and he wants to scream, but he's finding breathing hard enough to do right now.

The words barely making their way out of his throat, Henry whispers, "I can help."

"Yeah," she agrees roughly. "You can leave. And not come back. That's what you can do."

"Did your husband –" he bites down on his lip, struggling with the idea that his mother is married, and worse, married to someone who is leaving these kinds of marks on her.

It takes everything he has not to let the rage he's feeling suffocate him.

Not to find the son of a bitch who did this to his mother and beat him to death.

He reminds himself that his moms need him to be stronger than his anger and desperation.

Especially right now.

"That's none of your business. Nothing about me is your business," she hisses, coming closer so as to ensure that her co-workers can't overhear the argument that she and Henry are having.

"I –"

"The guys told me you've been asking around about me. I want it to stop. Now."

"I'm just trying to help."

"You're not listening: I don't want your help."

"What he…it's…it's not right." Such worthless insignificant words; they're all he can manage.

"Maybe it's not, but who do you think you are? Some kind of hero? Let me tell you something, Kid, there's no such thing as heroes. And you playing it? Just makes my life a lot harder."

"I didn't mean -"

"No, I bet you didn't." She laughs bitterly, and he almost thinks that he sees Regina in her, but no, even this anger isn't right. It's almost too empty. "No one ever means to cause harm, but guess what, _Henry_ –" she practically spits out his name. "That's what happens, anyway."

She turns away from him, then, moving back towards the register.

"I'm sorry," he offers her, his voice shuddering with emotion.

She stops, then, her shoulders slumping.

Her back still to him, she asks, "How's your daughter? Is…is she all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks to you."

Elizabeth nods, her hands clenching and unclenching. "Well, at least that's something." She turns back and looks at him, the fight having drained out of her. "If you actually want to have breakfast, I have no right to make you leave, but…I want you to stay away from me, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees knowing it for the lie that it is. "I have to get going, anyway, but –"

"No," she insists, shaking her head. When she speaks, there's an unsettling urgency in her voice, and he thinks there might be tears in her eyes. "Listen to me, all right? For whatever twisted reason, you have a head full of hero. Maybe you want to fuck me –"

"I don't – no!"

She shakes his head to stop his meaningless (to her) protests. "Or maybe you want to save me because that's what you think you do or you know what? Who knows what your issue is, but you're way out of your league, okay? So I need…Henry, I _need_ you to stay away from me."

Hearing his mother say his name with so much fear and panic – the name she'd given him so many years ago even if she doesn't recall it – is something he thinks that he will never forget.

As it is, she doesn't give him a chance to argue – doesn't permit him a chance to again lie to her face – she just turns again, and quickly walks away from him, disappearing into the bathroom.

"Well, that didn't go well," Gil notes. "Word of advice, give it up. Ain't nothing coming between her and Trev; believe me, every guy here has tried, and it's all kinds of bad news. All of it."

Henry glares at him, biting back on a thousand things he wants to say. "I'm not hitting on her."

"Sure, dude. Whatever you say."

Henry's watch beeps with the reminder that Emma's hearing is in six hours.

It's probably the only thing that keeps him from having a stronger response to Gil.

Instead, his teeth grit, he says, "I need coffee to go."

Maybe it's his tone or maybe it's the coldness of his gaze, but whatever it is, Gil chooses not to argue with him – or remind him that technically, Elizabeth is his waitress. "Right up," Gil says.

"Thanks," Henry replies automatically, but he's already looking towards the women's bathroom, already noticing that Elizabeth has finally emerged from it, the make-up she's wearing just a little bit thicker, the bruises just a little bit better hidden than before.

Their eyes meet, and hold, and then she's turning away from him again, her back to him.

His watch buzzes once more.

He rises, putting down a five at the same time as he takes the Styrofoam cup from Gil.

Her back remains to him.

He wants to put his arms around her and hold her, tell her that it's going to be okay.

But she doesn't know him, and he doesn't want to hurt her worse than she's been hurt.

That doesn't mean that he plans to stay away.

But it does mean that when he returns, he's going to have a plan.

He's going to have Emma Swan.

* * *

 _ **before.** _

His roommate is the one who wakes him up.

The dude he's going to spend the whole next year with (Regina had wanted to get him a private room, but thankfully, dorm regulations and Emma had stopped that line of thinking) appears to be an early-riser who enjoys doing downward dog at six in the morning.

Kind of a problem.

Just perhaps not one on this specific morning.

Because in a few hours, his moms will be driving back to Storybrooke, and after spending almost every day with the two of them over the last few years, he's going to be without them.

Which is exciting, but also very weird.

"Hey," his roommate, a sandy haired kid named Lucas says. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes," Henry groans, then puts his hand to his forehead. While he hadn't been the one drinking last night, he had been out with his moms dancing and just generally enjoying everything. That probably accounts for the headache he has, and he can only imagine the ones that they'll have.

Because they both had been drinking all the way up until last call.

He'd seen them back to the hotel right off of campus (the original plan had been for them to spend the night with him in the dorm, but then his roommate had shown up a day earlier than expected, and it'd just made more sense for them to get a nearby room) and then passed out.

Rolling over in his bed (Regina had made it for him the day before, which had led to a whole round of Emma teasing her for it), Henry grabs for his discarded jeans. He fishes out his cell, curses about how low it is on battery, and then checks the messages; and sure enough, there's one from Emma asking when he wants to meet for breakfast. He quickly types back that he's up, and showering, and can meet them at the café a block away in about fifteen minutes.

He gets back, "Okay," and thinks it a bit strangely short, but sometimes both of his moms are.

Rising up, he leaves his room and heads towards the shower.

Because it's time to say goodbye.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

JB is waiting for him in the visitors parking lot when he arrives, worry written across the many creases of his face. He adjusts his tie as Henry walks towards him, one of his more obvious tells.

"This is a hell of a case, Henry," he says, taking the hand of the young man whom he has represented through various legal matters (in fairness, most of them have been related to contracts, but there was that drunk and disorderly from a few years ago) for half a decade now.

"It is," Henry nods, taking his sunglasses off and glancing up towards the high walls.

"Mind telling me why you care so much?"

"She's an old friend," Henry replies. "And if I'd known that she was in here, I'd have had you on it before. I did some reading on it, and…I think we both know that they railroaded her."

"Maybe, but she and I talked, and we both agree that her taking responsibility is the best choice. It's probably also her best chance for getting the parole board to let her out of here."

"I know," Henry concurs. "But that doesn't mean she should have ever been in here."

"She killed –"

"I _know_ ," Henry replies emphatically. Then, softer, "I know."

"As your lawyer, it's my duty to advise you against being involved in this. Your publisher is going to shit bricks when they find out – if this works – that you're housing a felon near your kid."

"She's no threat to Lucy," Henry stays stiffly. "If I thought she was, I wouldn't let her near."

"I believe you – I know what kind of father you are, but –"

"This is the right thing. And I have my reasons."

"Are they…she's pretty, I mean. I could understand that, at least."

Henry wrinkles his nose, and thinks that he really would like it if people would stop suggesting that he wants to sleep with his mothers. "No, God, it's nothing like that. She's…family to me."

"You said that before," JB notes.

"I meant it. She and I go way back."

"As long as you understand the risks."

"I do."

"Does she see you as family the same way you see her as it?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then go talk to her. She wants out of here because everyone does; but, Henry, she thinks this is all just some kind of tease. She's suspicious of me – for good reason considering how much you've had me hold back - and it's hard to imagine she'll be doing anything but the bare minimum expected in that hearing, She thinks it's just going through the motions, and that she doesn't really have a chance of getting out of this place. I think if she sells it, she has a chance. Look, I don't know that lady outside of the reports I've read, but if she's anything at all to you, then maybe seeing you will give her a reason to put on the show she needs to today."

Henry nods solemnly, overwhelmingly aware of what the stakes are. "It will," he says.

And means, "It has to."

* * *

 _ **before.** _

"Everything okay?" he asks them as they take seats opposite him, both of them looking not only tired, but also edgy. It occurs to him that while they're all huddled around the table in this little café, his two moms are sitting a good distance from each other, both of them looking at him.

"Of course," Regina replies, and it's too quick, and too forced.

Which Emma seems to pick up on because she says with a laugh, "We're just hungover, Kid."

"Right," he agrees, and thinks she's lying to him, but he can't imagine why she would.

"How was your first night in your room?" Regina queries, pushing past the awkwardness.

"I passed out," Henry chuckles. Then, cautiously, "How was your night?"

"We passed out, too," Emma tells him.

"But the room was fine," Regina puts in.

It's exactly that kind of conversation for the rest of breakfast, simple and short, and though there's no aggression in it, he can't help but feel a tension that hadn't been there before.

He can't help but feel like everything they say means something else entirely.

This isn't how he wants his family to break apart.

No, that's what this is, anyway, he tells himself.

It's not breaking apart, it's just moving forward, and eventually they'll all come back together.

Like they always do.

For that to happen, though, they have to be okay.

He waits until after breakfast to say anything to them – waits until after Emma has hung up with Killian, and she's come back over to where he and Regina are standing next to the Bug.

"Okay, so truth time: why are you two both being so weird? Did you smoke dope together?"

That catches them off-guard enough to make Emma snort with laughter, doubling over for a moment (and getting any icy look for it). "Things Regina Mills Has Never Done For $500."

"You don't know that," Regina corrects, and then they're both looking at each other. "So much assumption as always, Miss Swan; you'd think by now that you would have stopped doing that."

"Well, I would have also thought that eight years in, you'd stop calling me that, but –"

"Moms, what are you fighting about?"

It's his sharp panic that makes them both retreat, both of them exhaling.

"We're not fighting," Regina promises him. "We really are just –"

"Tired," Emma finishes, and then she and Regina are sharing a brief look, and it looks almost sheepishly apologetic. "But, this isn't about us. It's about you. We're gonna miss you."

"I'll be home first week of next month."

"That long?" Regina asks, a slight pout to her lips.

"Maybe sooner," he assures her.

"I know, I'm being silly –"

Henry tells them, "You're not. But I'm not that far away. We can Skype every night."

"We can," Regina agrees. She steps towards him, and rests her forehead against his. "I hope you know how incredibly proud we both are of you. How proud I am of everything you are."

"I know. You two have to promise you'll take care of each other. None of this…bullshit."

"Kid –"

"None of it." He leans back a bit, looking from mother to mother. "Your word. Both of you."

"You have it," Regina tells him.

"Yeah," Emma concurs.

He feels Emma's arms surround them, then, and wonders if they're all about to cry.

Maybe they do.

It's Regina who pulls back first, whispering softly, " _My prince_ ," as she breaks away from him.

It's pure undisguised adoration, and Emma feels the tears dripping on her face.

Even as all of their arms stay around each other.

When they finally break apart, Henry promises then both, "I'll call you tonight."

There are more hugs, a few more tears, a held kiss to his cheek from Regina, and then Henry is watching as his mothers get in the car together, another strangely awkward glance shared between them; and then he sees Emma reach out and take Regina's hand, squeezing it and he sees Regina let out a shaky breath.

Emotional and carrying some kind of new baggage around, but a team like always.

He watches with a grin as the Bug pulls out and as Regina blows him a kiss, and Emma waves at him; and then the little yellow car that had survived another adventure is leaving the lot.

Disappearing down the road.

He wipes at his cheek, cleaning away red lipstick.

A little over a decade will pass before he has the chance to do that again.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

The guard brings him into the room full of long tables, one after another. At each of them is an inmate dressed in orange or beige, and across from them, presumably a loved one. The scenes all around him are emotional and heavy, and this whole room feels like it's pulsing with painful desperate energy.

His eyes scan the room, looking for her.

And then there she is.

Wearing a beige uniform, her much shorter blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Her head down on the table, hands clasped behind her neck.

The guard leads him over, and barks, "Nolan, your visitor is here."

She looks up, and though she hasn't changed a bit, he has; and his heart stops as he waits.

And wonders if she will look right through him as his other mother had.

"Are you the guy who paid for my new lawyer?" she asks, her tone giving away nothing.

"Yeah, I'm…I'm that guy," he replies, pressing his hands against his pants.

It's all he can do not to scream right now because what if all this was for nothing?

What if he'd misunderstood the story, and she is as lost as Regina is?

Emma turns to the guard, and Henry thinks that if Emma says she wants to go back to her cell, he might start crying.

She says, "Can I…can I hug him? To thank him?"

"If he's okay with it." Off Henry's stilted uncertain head jerk of agreement, the guard adds, "Briefly."

Still not entirely sure what to expect from Emma, he watches as she stands up, and then comes around the side of the table. Their eyes meet, and he feels the tears in them (and sees them in hers) – ten years of loss and heartbreak – and then she's pulling him into her arms, and whispering, "Henry, you found me."

:D


	4. Three

**A/N:** As always, thanks for the kind words. Please know that any of the specific _questions_ you have...will eventually be answered.

 **Warnings** : Non graphic references to violence and abuse and not quite consensual sex within a marriage (both past and present for Regina and Elizabeth in this case). There's also language as well as mentions of Hook and CS. And we will finally meet Trev.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

Two long tense hours pass without a word between then, and then Emma yawns. She hadn't meant to, but the music is too low, and the Bug is too quiet; and it's not like she'd slept much the previous night.

"I can drive, if you'd like," Regina says, her voice cool and her expression blank. She's been like this since they'd pulled out of the parking lot of the college – since she'd rather abruptly pulled her hand away from Emma's and dropped it into her lap, folding both hands together there, and staring straight ahead – and while Emma certainly understands this uncomfortable edge between them; it's getting sharp enough to make her want to scream.

"No, I'm fine," Emma replies, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Her anxiety ratcheting, she steals a sideways glance over at Regina, trying for about the fiftieth time since they'd left Henry to try to read her.

But her face is smooth planes and dark eyes, and whatever she's thinking, she's not sharing.

Emma sighs loudly, "You hungry?"

"No."

"You need to pee?"

"No."

"You want to talk?"

"You know I don't."

"We should probably talk," Emma insists, her knuckles white from her grip on the wheel.

"We made a mistake. We know better than to let what happened ever happen –" she laughs. "Well, of course it won't happen again because…" an almost watery and then strangely plastic smile floats over her lips. "We'll forget it ever happened like we forget everything inconvenient to us, won't we?" Regina turns and looks at Emma, her face finally showing its first flash of emotion since leaving Henry. "I presume you don't plan to confess to your…husband?"

"I don't think…I don't think there's a reason to," Emma answers, frowning as she considers all the times she and Killian have lied to each other. Oh, it's gotten a lot better over the last few years, but then it'd almost be impossible for it to be much worse than it was before. Now, things are quiet and the only lies between them are about how much he drinks.

And now…this.

"No," Regina concurs. "There isn't."

"But that doesn't mean that we shouldn't still talk. Until last night, I didn't know you were –"

"Emma, stop."

"We need to –"

"No, we don't. What we need to do is get home, and get back to normal."

Emma nods at that thoughtfully, and then suddenly, and without warning, yanks the steering wheel to the side and parks the Bug on the shoulder of the road, turning to face Regina.

"What are you doing? Emma –"

"What's normal for us, Regina? What's normal for you?"

Regina looks out the window, her lips pursed.

"That's my problem here. I know what you're thinking –"

"You don't –"

"Of course, I do, because I know _you_ ," Emma cuts in. "And I know that you have it in your head that the very second we get home, I'm going to go off with Killian, and my parents will be doing their thing, and you'll be back in that big empty house of yours."

"I have my sister," Regina answers defiantly.

"You still have me," Emma insists. Then, quieter, "We can't take back what happened –"

"No," Regina agrees, her voice quiet and slightly trembling. There's a hundred emotions playing through her eyes right now, but Emma finds herself at a loss to grab at any successfully.

"But…we have come too far and…and you mean too much to me to let something like –"

"Right," Regina says sharply, and then does a deep breath in. "I know. It's all right. We're fine."

"You mean that?"

"We made a mistake."

"That's not what I asked," Emma reminds her. "I need to know that we're okay. We don't – I don't get us back on the highway, Regina, until I know that we're fine. That's the rule here."

"Is that so?"

"Yep, and you know what a stubborn ass I can be."

"Well, the ass part is true," Regina comments, but she's smiling ever-so-slightly.

"I accept that." She's about to say more, but then her phone is buzzing. She looks down at it and sure enough, there's Killian's name on the screen. She waits for it to go voicemail, and then turns her attention back to Regina, still so very worried. " _Are_ we okay?"

"You're really not going to tell him?" And it's funny because she seems almost afraid about this – perhaps even scared. It doesn't take much for Emma, the lost girl who was never chosen, to guess that Regina's worry is about the fear that if Emma ever had to choose, it'd be all over for them as friends, as family – perhaps as everything besides co-parents to a boy away at school.

And frankly, what husband, when confronted with such a truth, wouldn't demand a choice?

"It stays between us," Emma promises.

"Good," Regina says, smiling slightly, a mix of sad and relieved.

They both know it's selfish, and it's weak to embrace a lie just because it's a comfortable and safe one. Still, they both jump towards this agreement of theirs with open arms because maintaining the status quo is how their family has survived in harmony for the last four years; it seems absurd to let one drunken night several hundred miles from home change that.

"So, we're good?" Emma challenges again, her hand on the stick shift.

"We're fine," Regina assures her.

"Not fine, good. Fine doesn't mean fine with you. Fine means…bullshit."

"We're good," Regina tells her. And then scowls. "And fine doesn't mean that."

"It does," Emma counters, and she's not joking, because this really isn't a joke to her.

"Okay, then," Regina tells her. "We're good. Not fine, but good. Okay?"

"Okay." She kicks the car back into drive, and says, "Let's get home."

And then both of their eyes are on the road ahead, trying not to think about all the lies they don't admit to.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

The guard leaves them once the two of them are seated on opposite sides of the table (he tells them they can hold hands, but can't pass anything to each other; and how any other kind of physical interaction has to be approved), and Henry notes that until he's completely away, Emma's expression remains carefully guarded. Even once he's gone, it's still fairly neutral; but he sees the slightest softening around her eyes, and a tiny smile.

"Hey, Kid," she says, dipping her head just a bit. Her voice sounds rough to him, lower than he can ever recall, but he thinks that she maybe hasn't had many people to talk to over the years.

He tries not to feel the stab of intense pain in the middle of his chest at that.

"Mom," he says softly, and wants to scream it. "God, if I'd known you were here –"

"It wouldn't have mattered," she cuts in, perhaps sharper than she needs to. He sees the tightening of her jaw as if to show that she recognizes that she'd pretty much snapped at him, and then she's saying, "The first time I was up for parole, I didn't have a chance. No one does on the first try; but things have changed. Some…people don't care as much as maybe they did in the past, and I've been…I've been good. I think that maybe this time will be better."

He swallows hard at that, struggling against hearing his mother use that word – "good".

"I still would have come to see you," he tells her. "And I would have gotten my lawyer on it –"

"You have a lawyer," she says with a shake of her head. "Jesus, Kid."

A lot has changed," he tells her. "I grew up."

"I know." She swallows and nods, and then, her voiced weighted down with sadness. "I know."

The sheer grief and heartbreak he sees in her green eyes is almost too much for her. "If I had known you were here all along…I looked. I need you to know that I looked for you and –"

"Shh," she soothes. "I believe you." She shakes her head. "Let's talk about other things."

"Other things?" he asks, not understanding why she keeps pushing him away from the obvious.

"Besides how I got here. That's not important right now. It just doesn't matter in here, you know what I mean?" Her eyes meet his – familiar and vividly green, and for a moment, almost frighteningly intense – and he knows that she's trying to tell him something important – something which matters. He's not sure what it is, but the sheer force from her is enough.

"Okay," he agrees. "Can we talk about your parole hearing?"

"Yeah," she allows. "Your lawyer…he seems to know what he's talking about. That's good. The last guy I had, I'm not sure he knew how to tie his shoes by himself." Her head cocks, then, and he thinks he sees tears in her eyes. "But, I don't really want to talk about that. I…I want to talk about you, Henry. You've gotten so tall. The last time I saw you…" her eyes close, and for a moment, she's somewhere far in the past, driving away in her Bug. "God, I've missed you."

"We're getting you out of here," Henry tells her, and then he's reaching for her hand and squeezing it. If the tears in her eyes hadn't already been enough, the flash of surprise and then joy which crosses her face at his touch just about does him in. "We're going to get you out of here, and then we're going to put our family back together, and we are going home, Mom."

"I hope so," she says, her eyes still on their hands. When she looks up, he allows himself to take note of her features. She still looks like Emma even if her hair is different, and she's not wearing any make-up. Just as time appears to have largely frozen for Regina, so, too has it for Emma.

But just as the years have dug lines into Regina's face thanks to the terrible life she has, so clearly, too, have they for Emma, who looks tired; like she hasn't slept in the last nine years.

He wonders if she has.

"Time is almost up," Emma tells him abruptly, gesturing towards the guard as he's starting to move down the rows, letting people know that their time is up. She dips her head down again. "Your mom. You found her too, right? I don't think she is still inside and –"

"Still inside?"

"Your mom," Emma presses, and then again winces when it occurs to her how rough she'd gotten. He sees the hand that isn't clutching hers squeeze tight, and then gently release.

"It's complicated," Henry replies. "And I'm guessing not a story for in here, either."

Emma's eyes widen in alarm. "Oh, no," she says. "What did that –" she stops abruptly as the guard gets closer, her face neutralizing into one which looks almost like weary boredom.

"Time to wrap it up," the guard tells them. "If you'd like to do a goodbye hug, you may."

Both mother and son stand up, then, and make their way around the table to each other. Henry steps forward, intent on hugging Emma as tightly as he can; but then she's wrapping her arms around him, and it's stiff and awkward; what you would expect from two strangers.

In his ear, she whispers, "I'm sorry; I'll explain later. I love you, Kid."

"I love you, too, Mom," he tells her. "Whatever is going on, we'll figure it out together."

"Okay," she permits, allowing her son's faith to guide her after nine years of having none.

"Time to go," the guard says.

Henry nods, and then says to Emma as he steps back, "I have a daughter. You'll get to meet her soon. She's going to love you." He smiles, then. "You're going to love her even more."

Emma's face cracks, a smile breaking through at his words. It doesn't last long, and then she's pulling herself back in as she's led away, but it was there; and he thinks that despite the obvious changes to her – the edges which have gotten sharper and bolder – she's still Emma.

Eighteen years ago, he'd teamed up with her to break a curse.

Fourteen years ago, his two moms had stood side by side to save their town.

Ten years ago, they'd taken him to school, and the world had changed around them.

He figures that all three of them together can find a way to do all of those things and more.

All he has to do is find a way to save both of his moms first.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

Henry's late.

He's been late all day, but right now, he's really late.

His watch says just a tick after seven-thirty, and he was due to Skype with his moms at six; but there was volleyball in the quad, and free chocolate sundaes, and credit card sign-ups. Okay, that last one is probably an issue (Emma had told him to stay away from making any kind of financial choices, especially when people make them sound splashy and wonderful; and it's not like he doesn't have one from Regina, but he'd like one that isn't monitored by her), but after two weeks of being here, Henry is still finding it a more than a little bit hard to breathe.

Going from a small town to a big college is…overwhelming.

And he's late.

What's worse is, he doesn't even have his cell with him, so he can't text them and let them know that he's running (and hour and a half) behind. His cell is up in his room. With his laptop.

Which he should be on. With them. And yeah, that last game of volleyball probably hadn't been his best choice ever, but it'd been hard to tell his new buddies no. Especially hard to tell them that the reason for saying no was so he could go back and call his moms.

Not that he'd even remembered his moms at that moment, to be honest.

That kind of makes it worse.

But he's on his way now, and he'll apologize and –

"I'm a door."

He hears this just before he slams right into a very solid surface.

That surface being a very pretty Latina girl with the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen. His writers' eye looks over her quickly – dressed in black jeans and a red V-neck; she's about the height of Regina with hair down past her shoulders. She's regarding him with bemusement, her arms crossed in front of her, a faded green canvas backpack hanging off of her left shoulder.

He smiles almost sheepishly, "Hi."

Her eyebrow lifts. "Hi. You go that way." She points to her side.

"What? Oh! I was…you were there."

"And you weren't paying attention," she notes.

"I'm late. For a phone call. With…my moms."

He honestly has no idea what he'd just told her that particular details. Something just a few moments ago, he'd been musing that he had no intention of ever telling her new guy friends.

"Moms?" she repeats.

"It's not like that." He winces. "Actually, maybe it is. It's complicated. Never mind, I gotta go."

"That way," she directs, a smile on her lips.

"Right." He steps around her, then turns back. "I didn't catch your name."

"Planning to run into me again?"

"Yes?" he admits.

She laughs. "You're not really adept at picking up girls, are you –"

"Henry. Henry Mills. And no, not really. Is that a bad thing?"

"Considering I'm not really interested in being picked up? No. But I think we're in the same Algebra 2 class, and I hate math, so if you're up for a study partner, then my name is Alicia."

"Alicia," he says. "Yeah, a study partner." He lets out a sigh of relief and then almost laughs.

Because his roommate is going to rag on him terribly for this.

But he thinks his moms might enjoy the story.

That is if they don't kill him for being now almost two hours late.

"I gotta go," he tells her again.

"Your moms are waiting for you?"

"Probably, and one of them can be a real evil queen when she's upset," he jokes.

"Really?" Alicia laughs.

"Yeah," Henry says much more quietly, eighteen years of history in his mind. "She's the best."

He offers her one last broad smile, and then he's racing up the stairs towards his room.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

She's waiting for him when he steps into their apartment, a bowl of cereal in her lap. His eyebrow lifts, and she smiles impishly at him, challenging him to call into question her choice of meals, considering how often they've shared a massive mixing bowl of Apple Jacks together.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," Lucy greets him, then offers him the bowl.

"I was thinking grilled cheese sandwich," he tells her as he takes the bowl.

"I know," she allows. "So, did you see Grandma?"

He chuckles. "She's going to not love you calling her that. But…yeah, I saw her."

Lucy's eyes light up, and he's struck – and not for the first time – by wondering if this is what he had looked like at her age. Had he been so expressive and open? So easy to read? Had he been so trusting and sure that whatever would come his way, victory would also follow close behind?

He thinks so, and is, as always (these days, anyway), gripped by the bitterness of that.

Because that's just not how it goes, right?

And yet, as he looks around his quiet understated apartment (especially for a man with his means), and his eyes flicker from his typewriter back to his daughter, he realizes that in spite of the fear he feels, and the doubts which plague him, he still has a whole lot of belief in him.

"Dad," Lucy exclaims. "Stop thinking and tell me everything."

"I don't like this milk," he says instead, stirring the bowl.

"The milk is fine," she tells him, nine going on eighteen and giving him that impatient humoring look which reminds him so much of her mother. She tilts her head, "We could go see Elizabeth."

"Probably not a great idea, Kiddo; I saw her earlier today," he says cautiously.

"She's upset with you."

"A little bit."

"Why?" Lucy asks. "Because we kept her up too late?"

And there it is – from seeming like a teenager, to reminding him in a quick cold hurry that she's only a kid, and doesn't understand the nastiness of the world outside of these safe walls.

"No," he says softly. "She's just…she's going through a lot. And I don't think she likes me."

"But we're still going to help her, right?"

"We are," Henry promises, trying desperately not to think about the bruises he'd recognized beneath the thick make-up that Elizabeth – his mother – had been wearing. If he thinks about that, and thinks about how she'd called out sick every day after she'd come to his aide, it makes him sick inside, because the cause and effect there are unavoidable. The realization that his sudden involvement in her life had caused her pain and suffering is impossible to miss.

"Okay," Lucy agrees. "So…Grandma?"

"Emma. She'll want you to call her Emma." He nods at that. "And we're a step closer."

"But she's Emma Nolan not Emma Swan."

"She knows she's Emma Swan."

"So, she's not like Elizabeth?"

"Right."

"Then when are we getting Emma home?"

"Soon. Hopefully," Henry tells her, glancing at his phone. JB had told him that it would likely be a few days before they'd hear back on the decision from Emma's hearing, but that hasn't stopped him from looking frequently. He wishes he could have been in the room with her, and wishes he could have seen her one more time; but as he's not officially recognizable as family, the best he could do was visit. Now, the best that he can do is wait for her word on her status.

Hope and pray because if Emma doesn't get out of there, he doesn't have another plan.

He's the Author, but he's not the Savior; and he thinks maybe the Queen needs both.

"Dad?"

"I'm okay," he assures her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close to him. "It's been a very long day and I've been across this state and back." He drops a kiss down onto the top of her head. "Right now, I just want to eat our cereal, and watch whatever movie you want."

That makes her face light up, and he's pretty sure that he's about to get forced to watch one of her terrible princess movies. Movies about characters who probably exist…somewhere.

For a long time, he couldn't handle watching even five minutes of one of these, even with Lucy – the devastating reality beneath the messages of hope and family and love too much to bear.

Everything is changing now, though.

And maybe…finally, he thinks that he's ready to try to embrace those things again.

So with an arm around Lucy, he turns the massive TV on the wall on, hands her the remote so that she can choose whatever she wants, and for once, doesn't try to escape his past.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"He probably just got distracted," Emma tells her for the fifth time. It's either that or stare at each other awkwardly, and there's been more than enough of that over the last few weeks.

That's what this night had been all about – trying to ease over some of the tension which, in spite of their best efforts, has been strangling them ever since they'd returned to Storybrooke.

Get back to how things had been before the college road-trip they'd taken; return to their weekly dinners and wine nights and just find the easy friendship which had existed before.

It's not working.

Oh, it's not like they're not trying, but there's this weird weight of, "yeah, but…"

It's suffocating, and they both know that ignoring it is leading them nowhere, but it's not like there's anywhere to go, anyway. Because Emma is married, and happily so (at least so she says, and Regina chooses not to contest that, because only madness follows if she allows the thought that perhaps Emma isn't as happy as she says); and what had happened back in Boston was a mistake which needs to stay there. They know that, and gods have they been trying.

Regina had made a pork roast with seasoned potatoes, and pulled out the best wine that she'd had in her cellar; and perhaps in retrospect, this had come off as a bit more like a date than a "hey, we're just best friends and all is well", and maybe the entire menu had been a mistake.

Hard not to think that with all the silence of this evening.

Which is probably why they're both doubly anxious about Henry being two hours late to call in.

At least when he does, they can just be his mothers instead of dealing with their own mess.

"I know," Regina replies tersely. "You keep saying that."

"Because you keep pacing, and I know where you head goes," Emma answers. Her voice softens, then, because there is a truth to that statement. "I know that you worry."

Regina nods, "I always worry," she admits, and it feels like she's speaking about a lot of things in her life. How it always seems to shift in and out of focus; seldom about what is seemed to be.

"But he's a kid at school. You know how that is."

"No, Emma, I don't," Regina snaps back at her, harsh memories of being a young teenage bride stuck in a terrible marriage assaulting her all at once. "Because that wasn't my life."

"It wasn't mine, either," Emma reminds her. "I was in jail when I was eighteen."

Regina's shoulders slump, the anger seeping out of her. "I know. I'm…I'm sorry."

"Our pasts suck," Emma allows.

"No, I mean for…all of this." She gestures around them. "We should have ordered Chinese."

Emma laughs. "I like your pork roast," she assures her, and it's not at all the point; but three weeks ago, neither of them would have blinked about Regina preparing such a dinner. That it's an issue now is symbolic about how they haven't really been able to forget.

Which has become a problem, mostly because almost everyone around them – even Killian – is starting to notice the tension between them. He thinks they're just arguing again (and she imagines that he wouldn't mind if the two of them hung around each other less; but that kind of brings up the reason she can't tell him the truth), but she suspects that her mother might know that something had happened between them.

The difference being that Killian has never wanted to notice what might disrupt his perfect reality, whereas her mother seems to be keenly aware of when her family is upset. Add to that how she has always watched her former stepmother with a degree of overzealous care-taking, and it really wouldn't shock Emma at all were they to find out that Snow has figured it out.

If she has, though, she's not saying anything.

Which is for the best.

Because once it's out there – even between the two of them (they've never spoken about it directly, always only in glancing reference and always as a mistake that they'd made), then they – and everyone else around them - will have to deal with it, and everything will change.

Everything will fall apart.

She knows that she's being selfish; knows that they're both being selfish, because Killian would have every right to demand that his wife stop associating with the person whom she had –

A loud series of beeps from the open laptop on the counter interrupts Emma's thoughts.

"Henry," Regina says, and then she's stepping forward, a half-empty wine glass still in her hand, and she's clicking the ACCEPT button. A moment later, Henry's sheepish face in on the screen.

"Sorry," he says immediately, sounding like he's out of breath. "I got…delayed."

"Delayed or distracted?" Emma counters, moving closer to Regina and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her. The touch between them causes a quick glance to pass before they're both looking back at the screen, both of them drinking in the sight of their far-from-home son.

"Both," he admits. "It's…wild. I thought last week was crazy, but every day is something new."

"Don't go too fast," Regina warns. And means a thousand things more than just that.

"Don't worry," he assures her. "I'm keeping a level head. No skipping classes."

"How many credit cards have you signed up for since we talked last week?"

"Which reminds me, once a week?" Regina queries.

She tries to ignore Emma's glance in her direction.

All the while wondering if its judgement or understanding.

"I know," he tells them. "I'll get better. These first two weeks have just been crazy between all the assemblies and new class get-togethers and all of that. But I'll do better. And Emma, I've only signed up for one. It had a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar limit. I can't get into trouble."

"You can always get into trouble," Emma tells him. Then, with a smirk. "Always remember your raincoat, Kid."

Regina just turns her head, and were Emma perhaps just a little bit more sensible, she'd even be afraid of the death glare.

But once you've jumped realms and sung songs together, it's kind of hard to be afraid of someone.

"Don't worry, Moms. About any of that," he promises. Then, "How's things been around there."

Another quick glance between them - this one slightly less deadly - and then Regina is lifting the glass to her lips.

"Are you two fighting?" he asks, because no, he hadn't missed that look.

"We're not," Emma promises. "We're just all adapting. And things have been a bit wild around here as well. That crate in Gold's shape – we finally convinced our two wary magic users –"

"They didn't convince us; our reckless sheriff here just did it. You'd think she'd listen to us since we know dark magic better than anyone," Regina inserts.

Ignoring Regina entirely, Emma corrects with, "That it would be better for us to know what's inside the box then to be surprised by it."

"And?"

"A ton of black fairy dust."

"Like's the Black Fairy kind?"

"Yeah. We assume it's left over from when she tried to…do what she did."

"They assume," Regina inserts once again. "Zelena and I are…looking into it."

"In the meanwhile, we've been tracking it over town," Emma says.

"And onto my carpet," Regina notes, glancing towards the living room and noting the dark smears of dust which she hasn't yet been able to get up off the lush beige surface there.

"It's clinging to every surface, but it seems…benign?"

"Have I taught you nothing?" Regina queries, looking right at her. "When does something that seems 'benign and harmless' ever end up not biting us all in the ass?"

Emma lifts her eyebrow at that.

"So you're…not fighting?" Henry prompts, trying to read them, and at the very least, reading that there's some awkwardness between them. Like there had been that day at the school.

"No," Emma says again. "We're fine."

"We're fine," Regina reiterates, and wonders if they really are just a broken record now.

A record grinding out and going nowhere fast.

"Tell us about school, Henry," Regina presses. "Tell us about your friends."

"You know my roommates," he says. "And there's a couple either guys. They seem cool. And there was a girl I just met on my way up. She…definitely seemed cool."

"A girl, huh?" Regina asks, an eyebrow up. "Just remember to keep focus on your studies."

"You're ridiculous, you know that, right?" Emma asks her, unable to hide the affection there.

"Just because I want him to stay focused?"

"Yeah, just because." She's smiling as she says this, and for a time, all the worries about their relationship which have been plaguing her for weeks are buried under the realization that they're both Henry's moms; and this is their kid, and she'd known exactly how Regina would react.

"Right," Regina murmurs, quickly looking back at Henry. When she speaks, her voice sounds slightly rougher, a bit wobbly in the middle, and he wonders again if something happened.

But he knows they won't tell him even if there is something to tell.

He thinks maybe they haven't even – as absurd as it sounds – told each other what happened.

Not really, anyway.

Which is exactly like them in the most frustrating of ways.

He'd love to tell them to just be happy, but he knows they'll say that they already are.

So, all he can do is say instead, "Don't worry. Studies first. I promise."

"Good. Now, now that you're two weeks in, tell us about your classes. Do you still like your Creative Writing professor? What about Algebra 2? We want to know everything."

"Really? It's kind of boring."

"Nothing about you is," Regina insists, and from just about anyone else, that might have sounded cloying and ridiculous; but from her, it's as sincere as words can possibly get.

Emma nods her head. "Yeah, Kid, everything. It's not like we get to see you every day. And I want to hear about this girl. Even if the idea of another girl in your life freaks out your mom."

"You're an idiot."

"You love me."

There's a moment of awkwardness - of _that's too close_ \- and then Regina laughs thinly and says, "You see what you left me with."

She ignores Emma's curious eyes.

Focuses on her son instead.

Smiles as he assures them, "I'll be back there in a couple weeks."

"It's not the same," Regina tells him. Then lifts her chin and smiles. "But it's enough."

Because it has to be.

All of this has to be.

His eyes meet hers for a moment, and she thinks maybe he sees right through her.

But then he's grinning and saying, "So her name is Alicia, and she's my new study partner."

Regina lets out a soft sigh of relief, feels Emma's shoulder bump against her (she doesn't bother trying to tell herself that it's accidental because few things between them ever are); and then she focuses on their son, and his stories about the exciting life she's thankful that he has.

Even if she doesn't quite feel part of it, anymore.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

This feels wrong.

One could even argue that it _is_ wrong.

At the very minimum, it's creepy as hell, and he knows it.

He's not sure how one could possibly begin to rationalize spending the few precious hours he has while his daughter is in school (ones which he should be making use of back at home working on a promised professional project) sitting in his car watching a woman go about her shift at work; especially since that woman doesn't know who he actually is to her.

Thankfully, she also doesn't see him out here. Or at least, he hopes that she doesn't see him, because an explanation about this would most certainly be super hard to come by.

Still, this is where Henry has been for the last two hours. It's been four days since their uncomfortable argument where she'd asked him to stay away from her (and four days that he's been waiting to hear back about Emma's parole hearing, getting more and more anxious with each passing hour; because Emma is his plan, and if she's still inside that terrible prison, well then, he doesn't know how else it would work; he doesn't know how to save his family).

Four days, and here he is, watching as she plasters a fake smile on her face and goes from table to table, serving coffee and dinner. She looks like his mother, but she's not his mother; and this has become more and more blatantly clear to him with each moment spent observing her.

Oh, there are similarities for sure, but in the darkest of ways.

Elizabeth moves slightly, quietly, and almost like she's afraid of being noticed. She looks around her from time to time, anxious and then retreating. The mother that he'd known had been bolder and louder, but he wonders about the stories from his book – the ones about a young queen who had faded into the background. Now, watching Elizabeth, he thinks about Regina, and his time growing up with her; and there are some dark similarities that send chills down his spine; because as a child, it had never occurred to him to wonder about the way she had jumped at odd sounds.

He'd figured that that was just what people do, and to a degree, that's true; but not in the way that she had, and certainly not in the way that Elizabeth does. Like they're terrified of what's behind them, and afraid that whatever is back there might be something truly horrible.

The difference, though, is that his mother would have fought against the things creeping in at her, even at the expense of her own sanity and heart. Elizabeth seems resigned to them, desperately afraid but certain that she's going to lose to them anyway.

He watches as the minutes pass and then the hours, and it's all the same quiet drill.

A fake smile which never meets her eyes, and then relief when she has a few seconds alone.

He watches as she steps outside and lights a cigarette, staring up at the overcast sky. It's strange to see his mother smoking, the pack in her hand showing off cheap menthols. He finds himself wondering how Regina will react when she realizes she's been smoking. These thoughts are frequent for him – wondering constantly how she will handle having been Elizabeth.

He sees her toss the cigarette, stepping on it with a sneaker, and then she's turning and their eyes meet through the windshield; he'd gotten lazy and hadn't ducked, and now her eyes are on his, and she looks equal parts horrified, frightened and angry. She takes a step forward –

And gets swung around.

She lets out a sharp yelp, jumping backwards in a panic before her eyes – and Henry's – settle on the form of a very tall very solid man with thick black facial hair. Henry hears, "Hey, Babe."

"Trev," she breathes, and Henry notes that she's made no attempts to go closer to him.

Which Trev also seems to notice, because then he's stepping into her space, and wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her. His size is such that he pretty much swallows her whole. Then, as if that wasn't enough of a statement of possession, he swoops in and kisses her hard, ignoring the way she stiffens up. She eventually droops into the kiss, but it's too much, too big.

It's a fucking show.

Presumably not for him, because he doubts that Trev knows he's here, but…for everyone else.

It's a statement of ownership.

Henry wants to kill him.

Actually fucking kill him.

Fingers clenching the steering wheel of his Mustang, he glares out the window.

And quietly counts to one hundred.

"Didn't know you were smoking these again," he tells her, and it sounds almost amused, but there's just a hint of dangerous undertone to it, like she's supposed to know better about this.

"First time in a while," she promises him, a blatant lie (one which Henry makes note of). "I didn't…know you were coming by tonight." Once he lets her go, she steps away, waiting until he slightly turns, and she then wipes at her mouth, dropping her hands before he turns back.

"Wanted to see what my baby girl was up to," he tells her.

"You know what I'm up to. I'm working," she reminds him. "And I have two more hours."

"I'm just going to get some coffee," he assures, an arm around her.

"Trev –"

"You went through a lot last week," he says, his voice almost lazy. "With that weird fuck. I'm just watching out for you, and making sure no one else tries to take advantage of you."

"They didn't take advantage of me," she argues. Even as she does, though, he can hear the tremor in her voice, the uncertainty of daring to dispute Trev. "I was just helping them out."

"I know you care because that's what you do. You care because you're a good girl, Lizzie, but sometimes, Baby, that's just not for the best," he reminds her, smiling at her like she's some kind of dumb child who doesn't know any better than to help out a stranger in need who probably just wants to hurt her. "And I just want some coffee." He lifts his hand up and touches her face, running his knuckles past her cheekbones. The make-up there remains heavy, still covering up now yellowing bruises. "Afterwards, you and I can maybe go have some fun."

"I'm tired," she tells him, almost a plea. "I've been up on my feet all day. Twelve hours. All I want to do is go home and sleep, Trev."

"There will be plenty of time for sleep afterwards," he assures her, and Henry has to clench his hands again, because though the words are said in the same weird lazy tone that Trev seems to like to use, there's a threat just below the "aw shucks" lilt of it. An outright warning, even.

Henry sees her sigh. Sees her shoulders droop. And then she's plastering on a smile for him.

"What kind of pie do you want?"

"You know me," he tells her, moving hair away from her eyes. If Henry hadn't just seen the previous interaction between them, and hadn't seen the bruises on her face, he'd almost think this sweet and tender, but instead, it makes his skin crawl on behalf of a plastic-faced Elizabeth.

"I do," she says. She starts to turn to go back inside, but then he's grabbing her arm again, and there's no surprise on her face this time, just a weird blankness as she accepts another kiss.

When he lets her go, she moves quickly inside, sparing just the briefest of looks towards Henry.

Her gaze solidifying for a moment, becoming intense.

He's pretty sure she's telling him to not even think about interfering.

He's still thinking about it when he feels the vibration of his cell phone.

The screen says JB.

He opens it, and breathes out, "Tell me."

A moment later, his eyes close and a bright beaming smile crosses his face.

 _Finally_ , some good news.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

He's on time for their weekly call for once.

Problem is, they're not answering their phones.

Or their Skype.

Worse, it seems like something strange is going on with the lines because both of their phone numbers keep ringing through to a disconnected recording. Even David and Snow's are.

He even tries Hook's but that damned recording plays for him as well.

He'd spoken to them just last week (separately this time), and everything had been okay.

Or at least, both of his moms had told him that everything had been fine even as they had been continuing on with whatever weird awkwardness had suddenly grown between them.

But something is wrong.

Something more than whatever had gone strange between them.

Something bad, Henry fears.

He'd been calling to tell them that he was going to have to cancel on coming home for the weekend because plans had changed. He was going to tell them that he'd needed to study for an Algebra test, but really, the guys had wanted to go over to New York to play around.

And Alicia had been planning to join them.

He's not sure Regina would have understood him choosing a girl over her.

But none of that matters now because their phones are going to that message and –

"Henry," Alicia says from the doorway. "We're going down to the quad to listen to music."

"Something came up," he tells her, barely paying attention. He dials Regina again.

And hears the message.

Alicia touches his shoulder, her brow furrowed. "You okay?"

He looks up at her. And tries to smile. "Probably. Probably something stupid. Promised my moms that I would call in, and they're not picking up." It's mostly the truth, anyway.

If his moms were normal, it'd just be a weirdness having to do with power lines or something.

But his moms aren't normal, and neither is Storybrooke.

"I'm sure they're just out doing something together," Alicia says, and Henry almost laughs because he never has gotten around to telling her that they're not actually a couple.

"Yeah. Look, I need to…catch up with them. I'll be down in a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure," she agrees, smiling brightly at him. Another squeeze of his shoulder and she's leaving.

Henry watches for a moment, thinking about how he's barely stopped thinking about her.

And then he's looking at his phone again, and he's hearing, "This number is out of service."

An idea popping into his head, he stands up.

It's madness, and his moms are going to shit a brick about him doing this in the middle of a school week – even if they had been expecting him to come home for the weekend.

It's silly, and this is all probably nothing.

He grabs a duffle bag and starts throwing clothes into it.

He tries Regina's number, then Emma's and gets, "…or has been disconnected..."

He grabs the keys to his Mustang and heads for the door.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

It's Tuesday and almost three in the afternoon, and he's been standing out here for the last half hour. JB is next to him, dressed clean and in a tie as usual. They're both leaning against the hood of Henry's Mustang, watching the gate in front of them, waiting for it to open for them.

For her.

"I hope you know what you're doing," JB says.

"Still do," Henry tells him.

"Your publisher is not pleased with you taking in a convicted murderer. They're threatening to find a way to terminate the contract. That's a lot of money they'll be demanding back if they do, Henry."

"They won't. They didn't cut me after my drunk and disorderly. They just like to pretend they're family orientated, but we both know their CEO has a cocaine and strippers addiction," Henry says.

"Charming," JB notes.

Henry frowns at that, eyes straight ahead.

Trying not to think about the past while also trying not to get too far ahead of himself.

But in a few minutes, he's going to have Emma back.

He has every confidence that the two of them together can find a way to get Regina back.

And then Storybrooke.

That's how this story needs to go, he thinks, squinting against the sunlight as it ricochets off the hood of the car that his family had given him just a little over ten years ago.

There's a sound, then – like a door with squeaky hinges opening.

And then there she is.

Dressed in tight blue jeans and a white tee-shirt, her blonde hair flowing around her shoulders. She lifts a hand and shields her wary eyes from that same bright sunlight as it now beams down on her.

Emma.

Her eyes go from wary to hopeful in a moment.

The guard nods, shakes her hand and says, "Good luck."

Henry moves away from JB, takes two steps forward.

And then grins as his mom surges into his arms.

Arms crushing her to him, Henry murmurs, "No storm we can't outrun."

Tears in her eyes, she can't quite repeat the words back to him.

She's not sure she believes them, anymore.

But that doesn't mean that she doesn't hold on tight.

He says, "I told you that we were going home."

 _ **:D**_


	5. Four

**A/N:** As always, thanks for sticking around with me on this crazy little journey. **  
**

 **Content Warnings:** Mild language, mild allusions to trauma and Hook.

Enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!

* * *

 ** _before_.**

David smiles at her as he opens the door, his expression unguarded, and easy. It's a wonderful thing and she feels the warmth in her belly as she smiles back. Still, there are still times when Regina feels like she needs to find a way to slow everything down so that she can try to understand how they had all come to this weirdly comfortable place of theirs.

 _Family_.

One that she is a valuable and wanted part of.

Sometimes, it all feels just a little bit surreal.

Now, gazing back into David's blue eyes as he holds his napping toddler against his shoulder, is one of those times. Because he looks genuinely happy to see her, glad that she's come by.

Clearing her throat and the rough emotion caught within it, Regina says, "Give him to me."

"Please," David adds on, a bemused smirk crossing his handsome features.

"Please, let me have my godson," she grinds out. "You're holding him like a sack of potatoes."

"He's about as heavy as a sack of potatoes," David tells her as she shifts the sleeping boy over to Regina. His sandy colored hair is already darkening, only the roots retaining the golden color that he'd been born with. Snow insists that by the time he's a teenager, Neal will be a full brunette like his mother. Watching as Regina carefully adjusts Neal against her shoulder, her arms wrapping protectively around him, David asks, "You sure he's not too much for you?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Henry," she reminds him. "And he was far bigger than Neal."

"Still hard to believe," David chuckles, stepping aside so that Regina can enter the farmhouse.

"He'll be home this weekend," Regina reminds him, unable to conceal the smile that almost immediately crosses her face. Things have been…strange since she and Emma had come back from New York (for obvious reasons, unfortunately, and she knows that despite their many attempts to try to talk through their issues, the fact that neither of them has been willing to actually confront the how and why of what had occurred is standing between them). She has great hope that having their son back home with them for the weekend might be able to help.

He's always been able to help everyone see what matters most.

Especially her and Emma.

"Looking forward to it," David nods, shutting the door behind her. "So, what brings you by?"

"I can't just drop by to say hello?" she asks as she glances around the quiet little farmhouse that David and Snow had chosen to retire to. Four years after their retreat from being front and center with the public of Storybrooke, there's still some signs that both of them feel a bit of the chafe of not having their hands constantly busy. Oh, they've adapted better than Emma has – she abhors quiet work weeks even as she claims to be thankful for them – but still Regina recognizes the simmering restlessness within David and Snow – a restlessness within herself that had kept her from following them into the relative peace of private citizenry.

"Of course, you can," he allows. "But you and Snow do breakfast three days a week."

"True," Regina acknowledges, seating herself on the couch. "Where's your wife?"

"Right here," Snow states, emerging from the kitchen, flour on her face. She's been trying to learn how to make every pie in existence, which Regina supposes is an entirely expected thing for Snow to be doing, even it's more than a little bit cliché.

"What is it today?" Regina asks, gently rubbing circles into Neal's back. Yes, he's decidedly heavy, and she's going to feel the strain of holding him later on, but she can't manage to care.

Because when Neal is awake and looking up at her, his eyes are dancing, and he thinks she's perfect. He's sweet and trusting, and he laughs too easily; and she barely remembers what any of that was like, but she knows that you protect that kind of innocence.

At any and all cost.

"Blueberry," Snow tells her. "You want me to take him?"

"He's fine for now," Regina replies as she moves the hair away from Neal's brow. "But I wanted to talk about what's been going on around town. I know you're both technically retired, but –"

"But we will still care," David finishes for her. "And if you need help, we're there for you."

"I know. How much has Emma told you?"

"About you and her or about the black fairy dust problem?" Snow queries.

"Me and her?" Regina asks, her eyebrow jumping up. "What are you –"

"You two have been…awkward around each other since Henry left," Snow cuts in. "So, I asked her why that was, and she told me that you're both just adapting to your new dynamic."

"That's a fair way to put it," Regina permits, thinking that "new dynamic" is an amusing way for Emma to have phrased what had happened between them; but considering the reality of the truth, she supposes that such wordsmithing does its necessary duty.

Snow smiles with too much plastic in it to be real; and Regina finds herself wondering once again just how much Snow thinks that she knows. She shakes herself mentally away from this thought; now is not the time for it, and she really needs someone to listen.

Because every time she's tried to tell Emma that all of this black dust is starting to worry her, Emma has insisted that she's worrying over nothing. Insisted that she's looking for a fight to have, and that they all just need to relax and allow themselves to be happy as they should be.

Regina wonders if Emma's insistence on this idea that they all have a perfect life would be the same if Boston hadn't happened…

But it had happened and –

"So, if the issue isn't about you and Emma," Snow prompts. "Then it's about the fairy dust."

"Yes, the dust," Regina agrees quickly. Realizing that she wants to be standing and moving around as she tries to explain her concerns, she glances towards David. He smiles, and reaches for Neal, stopped only when Regina pauses in her handover long enough to kiss the still sleeping toddler on the top of his messy hair. Once he's in David's arms again, she stands up.

And points down towards the heel of the black boot she's wearing. "I tried to not drag any of it in and onto your carpet, but it clings to almost every surface." Regina lifts the boot and runs her fingers past the rubber sole of it, black dust immediately transferring onto her tips.

"So, it's annoying," Charming notes.

"It worries me," she tells them. "Everyone thinks it's innocuous, just leftover dust from when Rumple's mother did what she did with it, but whenever I get near more than trace amounts of it, I feel…nauseated. It might just be because it retains some of her –" Regina shakes her head in annoyance, seemingly aware how absurd it sounds to say this – "…darkness, but whatever it is, it's not meaningless. My magic reacts to the presence of it, and in a very…familiar way."

"Familiar?" David prompts. "As in like, it recognizes your black magic?"

"What I still have within me, yes. It tries to bind to me, and then chooses to retreat."

"Every time you talk about magic," Snow notes, "You make it almost seem like it's living."

"The darkness inside of Rumple is practically living. It's a hundred souls caught and twisted together to make one massive evil," Regina reminds them. "Emma heard the voices. I don't necessarily hear voices between the two kinds of magic, but there is still an…interaction."

"What has Gold said about your…concerns?" Snow asks.

"He wasn't pleased about Emma insisting on opening the box, but he's been…quiet since. He's not sure. I think that he's…" she frowns, then sighs as she admits, "I think he's worried that pointing out that something might not be right could end up taking everything away from us."

"So better to just not know," David murmurs. "I never thought Gold would go for that."

"He has a wife and a child, and things are good for him," Regina reminds them. "He – like your daughter – just think I'm trying to find something to keep myself from feeling so lonely because everyone else has something. Emma phrases it better and…kindlier, but it's all the same."

"And you're sure –"

"I _am_ lonely," Regina admits. "Ever since Henry went off to school, things have been quiet, and I find that I'm not enjoying the quiet as much as used to. But that doesn't mean I can't handle it."

"You're not meant to be lonely," Snow reminds her. "You have your family –"

"I know. I know that I have you and my sister, and I have…I know." She holds up her hand to stop Snow from interrupting. "I know, and…that's neither here nor there. I'm not asking for anyone to spend more time with me or want to be with me. You have your own lives; I'm okay with that." She shrugs her shoulders, and then just does stop herself from mentioning how much things have changed between her and Emma as of late. "But this is more than that."

"Okay," Snow nods. "You know I believe you. If you think it's more, then so do we."

Regina lets out a breath. "Good." She lifts her hand up to her nose to scratch at an itch; in the same motion stepping towards Snow and David. "Then help me convince Emma and Zelena. Emma wants to believe that everything is wonderful here so much that she's ignoring her instincts, and Zelena…she has just enough of her magic back that she doesn't want to risk losing it again. She's helping me investigate it, but I think she'd rather just pretend everything is –"

She stops abruptly, then, her mouth falling open even as her eyes gloss over.

"Regina?" Snow demands, taking a quick step forward, her hand extended. "What's wrong?"

Regina doesn't reply, just staggers, her knees buckling as her hand falls away from her face, a black smudge on the skin just below her nose. When she hits the ground, there's an audible thud as her head smacks the wood flooring. She rolls to the side, her head lolling lifelessly.

"Snow?" David asks, cradling Neal, who has woken up and is calling for his godmother.

"She's alive," Snow exhales, her hands against Regina's neck, and then against her cheeks, taking care not to touch the smudge of black dust on the queen's face. "She's still with us."

* * *

 _ **then.**_

She shouldn't be here.

Her dad wouldn't approve of her cutting school (though she's certain he'd done it many times when he'd been her age; he had far too many adventures to have been stuck inside a boring classroom all day), and he certainly wouldn't approve of her being _here_.

And yet, this is exactly where she is at just a hair before two in the afternoon, sitting at a table in the diner, anxiously drumming her fingers against the top of it as she waits for Elizabeth to show up.

Because that's what this is all about.

Truthfully, she's not entirely sure why she'd felt the need to see this strange woman. Yes, she knows who her father believes Elizabeth to be (and her dad's typewriter had agreed with him; sometimes all of this is unbelievable, even for an imaginative and spirited little girl who will be ten in six months, and who still believes that there's magic and hope in every single step that she takes), but it's not like she has any kind of real connection to Elizabeth, right?

Only, she kind of feels like she does.

And not just because her father believes that Elizabeth's real name is Regina Mills.

She feels like there's more between them than just a name; so when Elizabeth turns the corner, and sees Lucy sitting there waiting for her, Lucy doesn't even bother to look even a little bit sheepish about the surprise in Elizabeth's eyes. Instead, she smiles ear to ear and waves at her.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, stops in her tracks, frowning at the little girl staring back at her.

Watching as Lucy's hand drops, and she shifts against the faded red cushion under her butt.

Noticing that Lucy's smile hasn't faded away.

With a tired resigned sigh, Elizabeth makes her way over to her. "Lucy, sweetheart, are you here alone?" Off Lucy's nod, she follows up with, "Does you dad know that you're here?"

"No. He thinks I'm at school."

Elizabeth nods at that, seeming strangely relieved. "So then, you're cutting class?"

Lucy lifts her finger to her lips, grins at her and says, "Shhh."

That earns her a small laugh, one that makes Lucy smile grow even bigger.

"Where is your dad?" Elizabeth asks her, glancing around as if looking for someone.

Lucy assumes it's her dad, but she can't quite understand why Elizabeth seems so worried.

"He went to see my grandmother," Lucy answers, because that's true.

And she _hates_ lying.

Weirdly, even more so to this woman.

"Your grandmother," Elizabeth repeats. Then, nodding, "And you cut school, why?"

Lucy wrinkles her nose. "There was a math test I didn't want to take. I'm awful at math."

That's also true. Not the overriding reason, of course, but true enough not to be a lie.

"Take it from me, you can't avoid it forever. We all have to face the ugly stuff time to time," Elizabeth tells her. "Since you're here, anyway, would you like some orange juice?" She shakes her head slightly, amazed that she's not telling this girl to leave like she should. Knowing that this child being near her in any way is a slippery slope to her father's weird obsession.

And it all just reminds her about the fight with Trev after the hospital.

A fight that she desperately does not want to repeat.

"I know," Lucy nods. "And I would. But mostly I wanted to see you."

"Me? Why?" Elizabeth's brow knits, panic blooming in the middle of her chest.

"Because I like you."

Said so simply, so easily.

Elizabeth softens as she looks at Lucy, touched by the little girl in a way that sparks conflicting emotions in her. Fear over this new problematic interference into her life that Lucy and her father represent, but also a degree of fascinated curiosity because she so rarely gets to be close to anyone who smiles quite so easily these days. "That's very sweet, but this is no place for you. I'll get you something to eat, and then you need to be heading back to school, all right?"

"Are you good at math?" Lucy asks her, completely ignoring the previous offer.

"I'm not bad," Elizabeth tells her, having a pretty good idea where this is about to go.

"Will you help me?"

"That's probably –"

Lucy cuts her off by pulling her backpack onto the table and yanking out a computer pad. She touches the screen and her homework appears on it, complicated math equations showing.

"Just one problem," Lucy tells her. "And then I'll go."

It feels like a loaded statement, but Lucy is just a child, and couldn't possibly understand such things.

"Fine, one problem. I'll go get you some juice and…fries?"

Lucy nods, smiling once again.

"I'll be right back." She turns and walks away from her, crossing over to speak to a man standing on the opposite side of the room (Lucy thinks he's her boss). She speaks to him for a moment, and he shakes his head, and then shrugs his shoulders, and wanders away to talk to one of the other waitresses. Lucy watches as Elizabeth hands a piece of paper off to one of the cooks, and then she's pouring two glasses of orange juice and making her way back over.

"Pulp?" Lucy queries, taking the glass from her.

"You look like someone who likes pulp," Elizabeth notes as she slides into the opposite side of the booth. "Fries will be up in just a minute." She notices that Lucy hasn't touched the glass of orange juice since she'd put it down in front of her. "Something wrong?"

"I don't have any money to pay for it," Lucy admits.

"No, I didn't think you did. It's…it's on me."

"You're really nice," Lucy tells her. "I like you."

Elizabeth chuckles, a strange almost haunted look (well beyond Lucy's years to catch) slides across her face for a second before she says, "And you're very sweet. I like you, too. Now, I only have ten minutes before my break is over, and then I have to do real work so show me this math problem of yours."

"I can help," Lucy offers.

"Help? I don't -"

"With your job, I mean. I can carry trays."

"Oh, no. That's okay. This isn't…this isn't something you need to be worrying yourself about. I want you to stay a kid for as long as you can, okay?" She looks across the room when she says this, glancing up at the large circular clock on the far wall, noticing that it's getting just after two in the afternoon. "I want you to be happy. That's your job."

"Are you happy?" Lucy queries, cocking her head to the side.

"Of course," Elizabeth answers quietly, and Lucy thinks she's hears a ding in her head.

 _Lie_.

But then Elizabeth is clicking through the math problem, squinting as she studies the numbers, her mind whirling as she moves digits around. After a few seconds of this, she smiles softly, and says, "Oh, this isn't too complex." She nods up at the waiter who brings the fries by (she moves the plate in front of Lucy, noticeably away from herself), and then returns her attention to Lucy. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Lucy agrees, popping a fry in her mouth.

"Good, then let me show you how we're going to solve this problem."

* * *

 ** _before._**

"Regina's down," David says, before Emma can manage even a simple "hello".

"Down?" Emma repeats, glancing over at Killian as they abruptly stop in the middle of the sidewalk just outside of Granny's. He'd met her for lunch – ostensibly a way to try to help them with the sudden communication issues that have been popping up in their relationship since her return from dropping Henry off at college a little over two months earlier.

Well, their communication issues have been going on for a lot longer than that, she grudgingly acknowledges (at least to herself), but they've only seemed unmanageable since the return.

Perhaps for obvious (to her, anyway, and that's probably the problem) reasons.

"She was up, and then she was down," David tells her. "We're taking her to the hospital."

"Is she hurt?" Emma demands, alarm weighing down her voice.

"Not that we can tell," Snow answers, her voice distant as she speaks from her position crouched over Regina. "She just passed out, and we can't bring her around."

"Nothing happened before?" Emma presses, and then she's walking again, followed closely by Killian, who is frowning; seeming to recognize that their day out is now over. "I mean, was she doing anything? Was she saying anything? Was she feeling all right?"

"We might have an idea what caused this," Snow replies.

"You do? What?"

"Emma, just join us at the hospital," David tells her. "We'll explain everything there. Or try to."

"You sound awfully calm," Emma states, leading them to where the Bug is. She stops when she sees Killian's reluctance to get in, tilting her head inquisitively at him. He offers her a smile, then, his shoulders slumping as he assumes a more amicable disposition.

"Whatever is going on with her, we'll figure it out," Snow replies. "We always do. But…just to be cautious, I probably wouldn't call Henry until we know more. Or can wake her up."

"Yeah, he doesn't need this stress," Emma agrees. "Okay, we'll be there in five." She hangs up the phone, and then pockets it, turning to look at Killian. "What's wrong?" she asks him.

Because for the last few weeks, it's felt like they've been heading towards some kind of collision; but every time they get close, both of them back off. Refuse to upset what they have.

Except she already has done that, and it's a guilt that refuses to stop gnawing at her.

One night away from home.

One mistake.

One regret she should have, but _doesn't._

Which, too, is the problem.

"Something is amiss with the Queen?" Killian asks, trying to keep his tone neutral. To his credit, he has gone out of his way to not voice his concerns about their relationship. Even though he suspects that Regina harbors feelings for Emma that go well beyond just the platonic. He's fairly certain that Emma doesn't return the feelings, but that's hardly changed the discomfort.

Nor does it change the reality that there's really not much he can do about this.

Telling Emma Swan who she can and cannot be friends with is a complete non-starter.

Even when you're her husband.

"She passed out," Emma tells him, her keys clinking together in her car as she gets in.

"That happens often with her," he observes, his tone still neutral.

"Too often, but this time, they can't seem to wake her up."

"Ah. Well then, we should be going," he states, pulling the passenger door open.

"You're upset," she says, tilting her head. "Why?"

He forces a smile, "Only at the missed opportunity of this afternoon, love."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I promise you we'll make time for just…us, okay? Soon."

"Of course; we will have a thousand other opportunities, Swan. And –" he chuckles; it's meant to off-set the dissension brewing between them, but it's a bit too high and thin to be honest. "We _are_ the law in this town; I suppose that duty calls."

"She's family, Killian," Emma reminds him, finding herself unwilling to allow him to just brush over what Regina means to her…whatever that is. "She's my best friend, not my duty."

"I'm aware," he replies, and then he's pulling the door closed behind him.

And she's thinking that she probably should have just let his comment pass.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

"Hungry?" he asks, glancing at her. She's sitting beside him, riding shotgun; her hands folded into her lap, bent at the knuckles so as to stop fidgeting. Maybe it's her new freedom, or maybe it's the fact that JB is in the backseat, but either way, she's staying quiet.

Just looking out the windows, remembering what Maine looks like.

"Mo – Emma?" Henry prompts.

She turns her head to look at him, "I'm fine," she assures him. "But a real cheeseburger…" she chuckles at that. They have bigger issues at hand, but right now, that's priority number one.

Something exorbitant and ridiculous sounds wonderful to her.

"We can do that," Henry assures her. "We'll drop JB off at his office and then head home."

She opens her mouth to reply, but then closes it, nodding sharply instead, eyes straight ahead once again. He can only imagine what's going through her mind, so much time having passed.

For all of them, and in so many different terrible ways.

"I don't think she trusts me," JB notes with a self-depreciating chuckle.

"I don't trust anyone," Emma corrects, her voice quiet.

That's the last thing any of them say until Henry pulls up in front of JB's office building. JB reaches across the seat, shakes Emma's hand and says, "We can talk your next steps in a few days. I'm sure right now, you'd like a hot meal and a soft bed."

"Both," Emma acknowledges. "And this…isn't my first rodeo. I know how to lay low."

"Not too low. Your –"

"Parole officer will be expecting me on Friday. I know. I'll be there. Thank you."

"Good luck; if you need anything, give me a call. Henry, a quick word?"

"Of course."

She offers them both the most convincing smile that she can, and then watches as the two men – her lawyer and her son – move a few feet away from the car so they talk quietly together.

Presumably about her.

She's not wrong.

"You know this is a risk."

"How many times are you going to tell me this?"

"I hope you know what you're doing. Nine years behind bars for murdering your –"

"I know," Henry cuts in. "She'll be okay."

"You know I love you, Henry, and I'll support you because, well, you pay my mortgage, but I think you're out of your mind on this one. But I hope I'm wrong," JB tells him, and then he's shaking Henry's hand and moving away, disappearing behind heavy mirrored glass doors.

Henry exhales, and then turns to face the car, his face splitting into a wide smile. "I know a place," he says as he gets in, "That serves this cheeseburger that's like five patties high, has hot sauce, and enough cheese on it to give you a heart attack. We should totally go there. Mom."

"I missed you calling me that," she murmurs, reaching out to touch his face.

"I missed getting to call you it," he tells her, his hand closing over hers and squeezing.

After a few seconds of this passes, she says, "Let's get away from this place. I've had my fill of lawyers for a lifetime, and…I get the feeling that you have a lot that you need to tell me."

"Yeah," Henry admits. "A lot has happened. None of it good."

"No, I didn't think so. She got us good."

"We'll make her pay."

Emma shakes her head. "For the first several years I was in that place, that's all I could think about. Get out of there, find my family, and then make that bitch pay for what she did."

"And now?"

"Now, I just want my family back. Everything else…I don't care about." She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself not to let nine years of emotions out, but then the hand that had been over hers is lowering both of their hands down, and squeezing even harder now.

"We're halfway there," Henry assures her. "I found you. We're going to find everyone else."

"Wait, I thought you said you had found Regina," Emma notes, using the search for her missing family to focus her thoughts away from the simmering cauldron of painful emotions within her.

"I did," Henry tells her as he pulls into traffic. "But…she's not quite herself."

Emma swallows. "As in –"

"She thinks she's someone else. Not Regina Mills."

"Who?"

"She goes by Elizabeth. And…and she's married."

"Married? To who? Someone from Storybrooke? Did she curse Regina into another fucked marriage?" Emma demands, one of her hands clenching. Almost immediately, she seems to notice her mounting anger, and Henry sees her inhale and exhale before releasing her fist.

"No, she wasn't cursed into it, but it is fucked. He's someone from out here."

"Of course, he is," Emma sighs, running her hand through her hair. "Let me guess, she's taking it. She's not fighting back. Because our punishments were to make our pasts even worse."

"I really think it's best if you see it for yourself."

"Kid –"

"Emma Nolan," he cuts in. "Who was she?"

"Someone entirely different than me," Emma replies, looking out the window. "Who ended up in the same exact place that I did, but with even less hope than I ever had. And I had none."

"Yeah," Henry says quietly. Then, his jaw setting in a way that is wonderfully familiar, he announces, "But all of that is about to change. "You need hope? Well, I can help with that."

"More than getting me out of that place?" Then, as if remembering, "You mean your daughter."

"I do." He parks the car and points up towards a very tall apartment building. "That's my place way up there near the top. You're…well not home, but close enough for the time being."

He starts to get out, but is stopped by Emma's hand settling lightly on his wrist. "I heard what your – my – our, I guess, lawyer said to you. That you taking me in could hurt your career –"

"Fuck my career," Henry replies vehemently. "All I care about is my family. Lucy, you, Mom, Grandma and Grandpa. And getting back to Storybrooke. And you know what? Even if I gave two shits about my career, it still wouldn't mean a thing because you're my mother, and I have spent the last ten years missing the two women who made me who I am. I'm done missing you two. I'm done missing home. And if that means I sell less next year, then I'm okay with that."

"You know I'm a mess," Emma tells him. "I probably _shouldn't_ be around your daughter."

"What I know is that you're who I trust to help me right again. Mom – Regina - she can help us kick ass when the time is right, and she can set everything back the way it's supposed to be and…make home feel like home, but Emma, you're the one who can get us back home."

"You have a lot of faith in me. I'm not sure it's deserved this time. You know what I did."

"I know. And I will always have faith in you. You're Emma – you always come through."

She smiles thinly at him, unshed tears in her eyes, wishing she could believe in herself as much as he believes in her. But there are screams and gunshots and blood running down an alley.

There's everything falling apart and then nine years in a cage.

The truth is that she doesn't have faith in herself, but she still has it in him.

That's enough.

Exiting the car, she follows Henry towards his apartment building, taking in the way that the world has changed in the time that she's been away from it.

Realizing that even though the world has changed, their family – _Regina_ – still needs her.

And that sounds a whole lot like purpose.

It's been a very long time since she's had one.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"Has she woken up yet?" Emma asks as she storms down the hallway, Killian barely attempting to keep pace. They reach her parents – and Zelena, who Snow had called – within a few strides.

"Not yet," David replies with a shake of his head. "They took her down for scans."

"It's magical," Zelena says shortly. "Dark magic. I can feel it all over this place." She looks at Emma, a stormy almost challenging glint in her blue eyes. "Certainly, you can, too, Savior."

"Savior?" Emma asks. "What –"

"She warned you not to open that crate. You'd think that you'd of all people would listen."

"Watch yourself," Killian growls, stepping forward, clearly ready for a fight. Anything that will help him to channel the churning frustration running a mile deep within him these days.

"Easy," Emma tells him, her hand out to stop him. It settles lightly against his chest but the touch is more appeasing than it is warm and caring, "She did warn me, but we had to know."

"Sometimes, it's best not to know," Zelena replies. "As for you, Pirate –"

"Hey, enough," Snow inserts. "This isn't helping anything. It's not helping Regina."

"She had better be all right, or there will be hell to pay," Zelena hisses, reminding everyone just how slim her faith is in anyone besides her sister. Yes, she's come to know and care for these people, but in the end, the one person she absolutely believes in and needs in her life is Regina.

"She will be," Emma assures her, her voice softening.

"She is," Victor says, walking towards them. They all turn to face him as he approaches.

"She's awake?" Snow queries.

"She is. A bit dizzy and definitely nauseated, but conscious and aware. I didn't see anything on the scans." He looks at Emma. "She did ask for you specifically. Said that she saw something."

"She's okay?" Zelena asks again, a slight tremor in her voice making her fears very clear.

"She's going to be fine," Victor assures her. "I'd probably recommend her resting for a few days, but since when has the Queen ever done that?" He shakes his head. "Sheriff?"

Emma looks over at Zelena, "Come with me. If you're right and what happened is magical, and she thinks she's figured something out, you're still going to understand this more than me."

Zelena nods, and starts after Victor, pausing only when she notices that Emma hasn't joined her just yet. She turns and watches Emma talking softly to Killian, her hand settled on his wrist.

Whatever words Emma says to her husband, Zelena can't hear, but it's clear to her that Killian isn't happy. He tries to force an understanding smile, tries so very desperately to understand the relationship between his wife and her best friend, but it all just looks like it's slipping away.

That's not her concern, though.

They're family to her because they're family to Regina.

Still, Zelena waits.

Watches the not so happy couple exchange a quick kiss, and then Emma is joining her.

"Everything all right?" Zelena asks her, because that's what family is supposed to do.

Pretend to care even when they don't.

Be there for each other.

She's trying.

Emma offers her a small smile of understanding, and Zelena thinks this is why Emma and Regina get each other; they can see the failings and still recognize the effort and intent of being better.

"I hope so," Emma allows, a hundred different meanings to her words.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

"Lucy?" Henry calls out as they enter the apartment. Emma's eyes immediately flicker around, taking in the surprisingly modest homestead. Oh, there's little wanting in here, but for a man of his clear means, thanks to his career, it's apparent that Henry has been living rather simply. Almost like he's been trying to live off the grid.

She's about to say as much when she sees the typewriter on the table. Beautiful as it's always been, she feels herself being kicked back a decade, to the day Rumple had given it to him.

"It's always been with me," Henry tells her. "I'm still the author. It still tells our stories."

"It does?" she asks, clear surprise in her voice.

He shrugs. "Sometimes. Sometimes…the words don't come, and I can't remember. Other times, it feels like I have this…link to the world around me. To all of you. And I see everything again."

"Is that how you found me?"

"I think so," he admits, and then he's showing her the piece of paper that had shown him where she was – had shown him her sitting in a cell repeating her real name to herself.

She smiles thinly, "Had to remind myself what I believed was real."

He gestures towards his laptop, and towards the satellite image of a town which comes and goes depending on when the picture was taken. This one is fairly recent and so it's there now, hazy and barely visibly, almost like a shimmering veil between worlds.

"It's real, and we're going to get back to it," he tells her, watching as she touches the screen. "We will."

Emma doesn't reply, just keeps staring at the Storybrooke sign.

It's Henry saying, "She's not here," which pulls her away from it.

"Is that unusual?" Emma queries, immediately on-edge. Her hands clench as if readying herself for a fight, but then she's meeting Henry's calm green eyes, and not seeing panic there.

"She may only be nine-and-a-half, but she's like me," Henry tells her with a grin. "She's almost never where she's supposed to be. Anymore than I ever was."

"You got into trouble."

"She's smarter than I ever was. By a landslide. And it may not look it, but this area is pretty safe."

"So where is she now?"

"If I had to make a wild guess –" he pulls out his phone and quickly types out (holding his phone out so that Emma can see what he's doing): **ARE YOU WHERE YOU SHOULDN'T BE?**

A few seconds pass and then: **I GOT DISTRACTED ON THE WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL.**

"Does your kid skip?" Emma asks.

"She's my kid," Henry chuckles. He types: **ARE YOU WITH HER?**

"Her?" Emma queries, squinting at the screen. It occurs to her that she really should see an optometrist. Even though she hasn't aged in almost ten years, her eyes still feel the strain of so much time looking into the assaulting bright lights and cloying dimness of prison.

"Elizabeth," Henry answers.

"Regina?"

"You'll see," Henry tells her, a grim note to his tone as the word **YES** comes up on his screen.

"We're going there now?" Emma asks.

"I promised you a cheeseburger." He shrugs his shoulders, trying to downplay his eagerness. "Unless you'd prefer to wait until you can get a good night's sleep. But you know me –"

"I don't," Emma murmurs. "Not anymore."

"You do," he reminds her, a hand on her elbow. "I'm still Henry."

"Single-minded?"

"Concerned only with my family," he says solemnly, a decade of loss and heartache reflected in his shimmering eyes. He starts to say more – wants to tell her how hard things have been and how much he has missed the two women who had always been his world (before Lucy and her mother, anyway); but one look at the sadness painted across Emma's face, and he knows that she understands his emotions all too well.

"Okay," Emma sighs. "Can I take a shower?" She offers a slightly sickly smile. "I haven't taken one completely by myself in…well, it'll just be nice to not be on a timer for once." She shrugs her shoulders, but noticeably doesn't dip her head, maintaining a stubborn kind of eye contact.

"As long as you need, Mom." And then he's stepping forward and hugging her as tightly as he can, his arms strong and warm, and she falls into him, her head against his shoulder.

She wants to tell him that everything is going to be all right because that's what he wants to hear right now; but for the moment, all she can do is hold onto her son, and let him hold her.

Whatever will come next, well…she supposes that they'll figure it out as it comes to them.

As they always have.

She kisses his cheek, and then backs away; he instructs her to where the bathroom is, and tells her that there's a bag in the spare room with clothes that he'd picked up for her. Almost shyly, he tells her they can go out later and get stuff she likes better, but he hopes it'll do for now,

"I love you," she says simply, and then she's disappearing into the bathroom. He notices with a pang of sadness that she leaves the door half-open, and thinks about the many scars that both of his mothers have always carried with him, and how those scars have probably increased.

He hopes he's strong enough to help both of them get through this.

When the time is right.

But first things first.

He types back: **STAY THERE. WE ARE ON OUR WAY.**

He gets back: **YES, DAD.**

And chuckles, because yeah, his baby girl really is a chip off the old block.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

To no one's surprise, Regina is already getting herself ready to leave when Emma and Zelena enter. She seems mildly surprised to see her sister but then quickly waves them in. "We probably should have Rumple here as well, but I have a feeling he'd…disagree with me."

"On what?" Zelena asks, coming to Regina's side and immediately placing a hand on her wrist. There's a light green glow from her palm, and then she nods to herself as if satisfied.

"What was that?" Emma asks.

"She was using her magic to check mine and see if I'm okay," Regina replies, shaking her head in bemusement. "And I'm…well…enough. That dust just crawled inside and rammed up against my magic. But that's the problem: it's not nothing." She looks at Emma. "We never should have opened the crate. That dust in there? It's not just what's left behind of Rumple's mother –"

"Regina," Emma warns.

"Everything's not fine, Emma. We can pretend all we want –" she glares right at her, and Emma knows that Regina isn't just talking about the dust. "But things are not fine. We can continue avoiding things and end up in an even worse situation, or we can deal with them head on."

"We can't," Emma tells her, hands settled on her hips.

"Because you're _afraid_ ," Regina bites out in return, a bit of the old Queen returning to her.

"You're the one who didn't want to talk about it," Emma reminds her.

"Well, now I do."

"Are we still talking Rumple's dead mother's ashes?" Zelena asks, reminding them she's there.

"Her ashes," Emma says. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. That's what I saw when I…passed out. A vision of her ashes merging with her dust."

"So, the bitch is still alive," Zelena sighs. "Of course, she is."

"Third rule of horror movies," Emma reminds them.

"What are the first two?" Zelena counters.

"Don't go anywhere alone and don't have sex," Regina answers immediately, drawing a surprised look from Emma. "I had twenty-eight years to keep me occupied, Miss Swan."

"Fantastic," Emma snaps back.

"Look, I'm all for you two finally confronting your whole pretending you're not mad about each other silliness, but could we perhaps do it later? When we're not dealing with a supervillain?"

The two women both look at her, clearly intending to deny her words.

But they can't so Regina just nods, "Stopping her is all that matters right now."

"You're sure she's actually back."

"When I passed out, I had a vision of the dust and the ashes reforming."

"Like the vision you had of how to stop Pan's curse."

"Yes," Regina replies, remembering how she'd seen plain as day that she would have to give up Henry in order to save everyone. "Just like that. She's alive, Emma."

"I never should have opened that damned crate," Emma states. "I should have listened when you two told me it was a bad idea, but I just…I didn't want surprised." Frustration sparking in her, she turns and solidly kicks a metal cart which is nearby, its many contents spilling over.

"Yes, you should have listened. Your anger now is a bit misplaced."

"You're lecturing me about anger?"

"I can't believe I'm the voice of reason right now," Zelena huffs. "But priorities. My life!"

"She's right," Emma grits out.

"Yes, I am," Zelena agrees, looking right at Regina. "You two will have plenty of time to blow up everyone's lives after this is all over. I, for one, would like to be alive to witness that."

Regina just shakes her head. "Fine. We should go tell the others. We need a plan."

"Good," Zelena nods, and then she's walking out the door, expecting the other two to follow.

And they do, but not before Emma stops Regina with a hand on her wrist. "We're okay, right?"

"We're not," Regina tells her, looking down and away, all of the previous anger dropping away, and only vulnerability showing up. When she looks up, she says, "But we'll find a way."

"I'm sorry," Emma says.

Regina sighs. "No, don't be. It's not your fault any more than it's mine."

"Hell of a mess the kid will be coming home to this weekend."

"Maybe he shouldn't," Regina says softly. "Come home, I mean."

"You need him," Emma reminds her.

"I do," Regina admits, her eyes on Emma's hand, which is still on her wrist.

"I need him, too," Emma tells her, her fingers squeezing against Regina's wrist

Regina lets out a breath, and puts her other hand over Emma's. "Hell of a mess," she repeats.

Emma chuckles in response, and after a brief uncertain pause, Regina joins her in it.

When it ends, they find themselves just looking at each other.

Thinking that they understand where this road is leading them.

One way or another.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

"You should warn me about Regina," Emma tells him as they approach the diner.

"I should warn you about her," Henry concurs. "But you wouldn't believe me."

"I probably would," Emma says quietly, remembering the alley and the gunshots again.

"Mom –"

"I'm okay. Let's…I'd really like to get home. I've never needed Snow White's optimism more."

"I hear that," Henry says, and then he's pushing the door open and they're stepping into the quiet diner. Looking around, he spots Lucy over in the back corner.

At the same table that they'd been at the first time they'd walked into this place.

She's alone for the moment, bent over her computer pad, gently biting her lip as she feverishly works on it with a stylus, writing and then scrubbing away numbers.

"There," Henry says softly, pointing over.

"That's her?"

"That's my daughter," Henry replies, grinning.

"She's beautiful."

"The most beautiful," he agrees.

"And Regina?"

"There," Henry says again, and this time he's pointing over towards a cash register.

Towards a small woman in plain unassuming clothes, her body swamped by a windbreaker.

Her lifeless dark hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail.

Her makeup thick and dull.

Instinctively, Emma takes a step towards her. "She –"

Henry catches her elbow. "Wait. Watch."

Elizabeth turns, starting back towards Lucy.

Which is when she sees them, her face draining of color for a moment.

Emma looks right at her, seeing no recognition in return. "That's –"

"My mom. Only she thinks her name is Elizabeth. She believes she's Elizabeth."

They both watch as Elizabeth turns away from them, moving back over towards Lucy. They see her bend down next to Lucy, a hand lightly settling on Lucy's shoulder as she speaks to her.

"She's still good with kids."

"She is."

"But she's afraid of you," Emma notes.

"She is," Henry agrees again, his voice quiet and devastated.

"She has no idea who she actually is?" Emma queries, her eyes finding Elizabeth's for half a second as the woman steps out of the way to allow Lucy to see that Henry has arrived. There's still no recognition to be found in Elizabeth's eyes, but there is unmistakable anxiety there.

Fear and worry over the unknown.

"She had no idea," Henry confirms. "But we both know that she'd hate that she's this."

Emma doesn't respond to this, just tries not to hear the gunshots in the alley.

"Okay," Emma says finally, her head up, her world and her purpose suddenly coming into sharp focus as she leads Henry across the diner. "I think we're going to need a new operation name."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but for now, let's go meet Elizabeth."

:D


	6. Five

_**A/N: Sorry for the long SDCC related posting delay.**_

 _ **Warnings:** Hook and Emma have some scenes, and well...he's not pleasant. For those who really dislike him, please know that there's not much more of him in this story, but...this does move the narrative forward for us._

 _Trev and Elizabeth have a scene, and there's a sexual situation alluded to which could be considered as dub-con considering the nature of the story. It's non-graphic, , but I do want to warn you in advance, and remind you that this story does contain psychological and physical abuse within Regina's cursed marriage. I promise you that it will be fully dealt with.  
_

 _Aside from that, there's some rough language._

 ** _Cheers, and please let me know your thoughts. Thanks!_**

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"And how is Her Majesty feeling?" Killian asks as Regina emerges from the back with Emma and Zelena flanking her. He's smiling when he asks this, trying to be sincere, but the growing unease within him is making it hard for him to feel anything besides jealousy for her. For this woman whom he's become certain has somehow come between he and Emma. "All better now?"

Regina lifts an eyebrow in awareness of his tone; she's spent most of her life wanting other than what she has – not necessarily what others have in the traditional envy sense, but rather what she has been refused for no reason beyond the common cruelty of others, even when all she had wanted was something as quiet and simple as peace – and so she knows the sound of someone who believes that their whole world is rapidly slipping away out of their grasp.

But it's not, she thinks.

Because despite the understanding that they're heading for a massive confrontation about everything that has happened, she has no doubt that Emma will choose Hook in the end.

She has no doubt that they will somehow survive this storm as they have survived every other.

Which means there's no time for this – no time for the silliness of hope and daydreams.

No time for such pointless distractions.

Even if that night continues to play over and over in her mind, vivid and noisy and explosive in a way that continues to overwhelm her. Alcohol and cotton sheets and nails cutting into skin.

And, _"Regina, God, Regina."_

She blinks the memories away (with considerable almost embarrassing effort) and focuses on the people standing in front of her.

"She's fine," Emma murmurs, reminding everyone that Killian had asked a question.

"She is," Regina confirms, a slightly shaking hand weaving its way through dark hair that has become tangled. She frowns as she tries to settle herself, and then says, "I…had a vision."

"A vision?" Snow repeats, her brow furrowed. "Like –"

"Yes, yes," Zelena sighs impatiently, waving her hand around in irritation. "Just like many years ago when she sent Henry and Emma away to live a perfect life without her while she returned to the Enchanted Forest and ran into me and we have a wonderful reunion." She looks at Regina. "That is the story, yes? Pan cast an oopsie, and you had to break it to save everyone?"

"I don't recall our reunion being quite so wonderful," Regina drawls.

"Details. Boring details."

"Can we focus?" Hook interrupts. "You can save the unnecessary trip down memory lane for later when I'm not around to have to endure it."

"Hook," Emma murmurs.

"I'd think you'd be a bit more alarmed about her passing out on us," Killian notes, staring right at her, his jaw clenched. "Or has your omnipresent worry for our dear Queen finally ended?"

"Oh, this is jealousy," Zelena notes, earning her sharp looks from both Regina and Emma.

"And we definitely don't have time for it," David cuts in, stepping between Hook and Regina. To Regina, he says, "What did you see? Was it like last time when it told you what to do?"

"Not exactly. As I told Emma and Zelena, what I saw was all of the ashes reforming back into a person – the Black Fairy, specifically. When we unsealed the box, we…gave her life again."

"You're sure?" Snow queries, sounding almost desperate.

"I'm sure of what I saw. And…as much as I would prefer not to, I believe it's true."

"And I believe her," Emma says immediately. It's meant to shortcut the conversation, and stop the doubts that are sure to spring forward, but what it does instead is draw curious looks. At least from her parents and Zelena.

From Killian, there's a moment of sad awareness in his eyes, resigned and weary. One that slides backwards, though, and she thinks that she sees something like steely anger lurking there instead. Echoes of a darker man who was supposed to have faded away, but hasn't entirely.

"Okay," David sighs. "So, Regina, what do we do about it?"

"We go see Rumple," Regina instructs. "If anyone will know how we can stop his mother from fully reforming, it will be him. My guess is, whatever the solution is, we probably won't like it."

"What else is new?" Zelena grunts. Then, suddenly smiling as she glances around at all of the worried and tight faces of the others, "Shall we all go as a group? One big happy family?"

"Zelena," Regina sighs. "Now is really not the time to be being you, okay?"

"What a shame. Seems to me we could all us some lightning up."

"I thought you wanted to live," Emma reminds her.

"I do. But don't we always live? We are heroes now, aren't we? Heroes always win."

"I feel like she's mocking us," David states, the slightest edge of a smile on his face.

"She is, mate. They all bloody are," Killian replies angry, and then he's suddenly walking away; his steps sharp and furious, his gestures decidedly violent as he shoves the doors open.

"Emma," Regina cautions, seeing the twitch of Emma's foot towards her vanishing husband.

"I need to…I need to talk to him. Do we…do we have a few minutes?"

"What are you going to say to him?" Regina asks, ignoring the looks from David and Snow. Ignoring their confusion and worry about how everything seems to be suddenly spinning out.

It is spinning out, she realizes, and there's pretty much nothing they can do to stop it. Besides, perhaps, ignoring the spinning, and when has that ever led to anything good forany of them?

"I don't know," Emma admits. "I think maybe…the truth?"

"Maybe this isn't the time," Regina suggests, and immediately feels like a coward.

"He's my husband, Regina. I need to…I need to make this right. Right?"

Regina steps away, her hands settling at her sides, fingers curled inwards. "Of course," she says shortly, not quite capable of hiding her hurt, even if it's probably not warranted here. "So, do what you need to do; we'll head over to Rumple's shop and figure out our next steps."

"Okay. Are you –"

"I'm fine. Like always. But be quick," Regina says. "I don't think we have a lot of time left."

"Henry –"

"We'll have this resolved before he gets home," Regina tells her, and means more than just the problem with the Black Fairy; she has a terrible feeling that issues between she and Emma will come to a head within the next few hours, and she's darkly certain that she's going to lose.

Emma, seemingly unaware of the churning emotions within Regina mind, simply nods her head again, and then she's following after Killian, disappearing through the hospital doors.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

It's a strangely long walk across the diner for Emma, and she's reminded uncomfortably of the many days she's spent walking down long corridors full of cement and steel, her eyes straight ahead, her emotions kept tightly in check lest they spill out and undo her. It's less than fifty or so yards of walking space, probably, but it feels like a something of a green mile for her.

"You okay?" Henry asks, his voice low.

"Of course," she replies, and tries to pretend that her heart isn't pounding nearly out of her chest with anxiety; she thinks it amazing that she hasn't even yet absorbed the fact that she's walking towards her son's other mother, and this woman doesn't even know she really is.

Maybe it's how different Regina looks, she thinks.

Maybe it's the long dark hair that falls lifelessly around her shoulders. Or the heavy caked-on makeup that hides blotches of mostly faded yellow. Or maybe, it's the flats that make a woman who had once conquered realms upon sharply murderous stilettos look small and quiet.

This is Regina, but it's not at all her, and Emma doesn't even know where to begin with that.

So, for the moment at least, she's not trying to deal – she's just trying to understand.

Find out what they're dealing with.

Figure out who Elizabeth is.

For the moment, that means walking beside her son, trying not to allow the surreal nature of all of this to overwhelm her; she doesn't entirely believe that this is real instead of just one of her feverish dreams (over the years, she's had more than a few unexplained illnesses, long stints spent sweating and delirious in the prison infirmary) giving her everything she's ever wanted.

Except this weird little situation that she's found herself in this afternoon most certainly isn't everything, and the fading bruises she sees beneath Regina's makeup remind her of such.

Not Regina, Emma forcibly reminds herself as they reach the table – Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, and for the time being, she needs to remember that and focus on that.

Because ten years ago, there had been an alley, and she had been someone else entirely, and then just been gunshots and blood everywhere, and her staring dumbly vacantly ahead.

At least until fingers had danced across her forehead, and the world had returned to her.

She blinks, licks her lips, and tries to focus on what's in front of her instead of the past.

She tries to focus on Elizabeth.

Tries to force herself to not see Regina.

And finds herself failing at this as much as she'd failed her family almost a decade ago.

"She says you didn't send her here," Elizabeth says suddenly, sharply redirecting Emma's attention to her as Elizabeth stands up; straightening her body into a stiff line that reminds Emma of her co-mother, even if every other part of this woman doesn't. She notes the somewhat suspicious way Elizabeth is watching Henry as she speaks to him, wary and on-guard like she's expecting something to happen. Emma finds herself recognizing what she sees in Elizabeth, her own prison thin and lean frame buzzing with anxiety and anticipation.

"I didn't," Henry assures Elizabeth, offering up a small smile to her. "Lucy is supposed to be at school." He fixes his daughter with what's probably supposed to be a stern look, but utterly fails due to his lack of experience with such expressions. "What kind of test was it today?" he asks.

"Math," Lucy sighs and then offers her father a sheepish kind of grin, knowing that he won't be able to stay upset with her – especially since she'd given him a good reason to come see Elizabeth once again. "But Elizabeth has been helping me; she's really good at fractions." Her eyes track from her father to the blonde woman next to him (a woman who keeps looking at her, seeming almost amazed and yet somehow also looking at her like she knows her in a way she obviously doesn't; it's unnerving), and a million questions flicker across her lips almost before she can stop herself. Thankfully, Henry seems to recognize the curious impulse in her.

One he knows had come from him.

"That's very nice of her," Henry says quickly, then looks at Elizabeth, the smile fading to a kind of quiet honesty. "I've always struggled with math – my own mom helped me out, too."

"Kid," Emma murmurs, almost too low to be heard, a definite warning.

Henry shakes his head at her, not quite willing to step away, his eyes still on Elizabeth. "For what it's worth, I swear, I didn't put her up to this. I'm not trying to come off as creepy."

"Maybe you're not intending for it, but if you actually want me to believe that, Mr. Mills –" she says this clearly to force emotional distance between them, and gods if that isn't familiar to Emma – "Then maybe you should stop following me around," Elizabeth tells him, and there's not even the slightest bit of humor in her tone. She looks over at Emma, staring directly into her eyes, and for a second or two, Emma finds herself almost unable to breathe because the intelligence she sees there seems so familiar and warm to her. But then Elizabeth is saying to her, "Lucy said you were off to see her grandmother. I'm assuming that's not you."

Emma just smiles at her, one hand emerging from her pocket, the hand somehow less shaky than she actually feels. "Emma," she says, because denying who she is to Henry and to this little girl who she has only taken her eyes off when she's looked at Regina, seems entirely wrong to her. She extends her palm towards Elizabeth and adds, "My name is Emma Swan."

Elizabeth just stares at her hand for a moment, and maybe it's catching a glimpse of Lucy looking at her expectantly that makes her decide to take Emma's hand. The grasp is flimsy and weak, devoid of anything resembling strength or Regina's usual dominating presence.

Emma thinks that she's never missed Regina more.

"Well, Emma Swan," Elizabeth says. "I have things to be doing. So, if you want a table, there's some free ones over in that section." She looks right at Lucy, suddenly going out of her way to not look at Henry as she slightly crouches. "I'm finished for the night. Are you good, honey?"

"I think so."

"Good. I'm sure your daddy or his friend here can help you the rest of the way. Okay?"

Lucy answers her by jumping up and hugging her, little arms circling her.

Elizabeth exhales, a hand settling lightly on the back of Lucy's head.

Emma tries not to think about her own father in this moment, and the way that he'd always held her, close and with his hand on her the back of her head, gently pulling him to her.

She tries not to think about she would like to be in his arms, hearing him say everything is okay.

"I like you," Lucy murmurs.

"I like you, too," Elizabeth tells her, eyes flickering closed for half a moment.

And then she remembers where she is, and who is watching her, and she pulls away.

Looking at Henry and Emma (jumping rapidly away from her – Emma can tell that Elizabeth is unnerved by her) as she steps back. "Please," she says simply, and then she's walking away, her face hidden beneath the curtain of her dark hair as she disappears into the kitchen.

"Kiddo," Henry says, turning his gaze to Lucy.

"Can I meet Emma?" Lucy asks, knowing her father means to lecture her.

Also knowing how easily distracted he is.

Henry turns and looks at his mother, lowering his voice as he says, "Mom, Lucy – my own little angel despite the fact that I think she carries around a spare set of horns. Lucy, one of my two mothers." He smiles brightly, then. "One of the two most amazing women in this world."

Emma's both surprised and not surprised when a moment later, Lucy collides with her.

She inhales sharply, remembering a little boy whose hug had been just as ferocious.

"Hi," Emma says quietly, blinking back the tears that are now threatening to fall.

"You're my grandma." Said so simply, like it's not a big deal at all.

But it is, and all Emma can manage is a soft, "Yeah," fearing that more will break her.

Fearing that anything more than that one simple word will cause her to shatter.

Because this little girl is her legacy – Henry's and Regina's and hers.

She's the proof that not everything had been stolen from them. That some light could survive even the darkness of this maliciously cruel curse.

"Cool," Lucy grins, hugging her tighter, face nuzzled against her abdomen.

Emma lets out the breath, still forcing back the tears, and looks up.

And right into the stormy dark eyes of the woman who should be Regina.

Who is watching her and Lucy with something that looks a whole lot like hunger.

For a moment, Emma is certain that she actually is looking right into Regina's eyes. Seeing a woman whom she used to know almost better than she had known herself.

Her best friend, and then…something else entirely.

Something else that had rocked all of their lives.

Ten long years of thinking about what had happened, and beating herself up over all of it.

That's all gone now; now, all Emma wants to do is step forward and -

But then Elizabeth is turning, pulling her oversized windbreaker tighter over her, clutching her purse tight to her body; and she exits the diner and makes her way over to her car.

Emma thinks, as she reluctantly lets Lucy step away from her (Lucy hugs her once more before she lets go, as reluctant as Emma is to surrender this moment, even if she doesn't actually have a real understanding of what any of this is), that they all have their work cut out for them.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"Killian! Killian, stop! Please! Talk to me," Emma calls out to him as she comes up fast behind him, her boots loud on the planks. She's nearly out of breath and angry that she's had to chase him across Storybrooke; all the way to this goddamn dock and to the ramp of his ship.

She's mindful of the fact that she's hardly an innocent in this argument that they are surely about to have – she's decidedly far more the guilty party than he is – but that does nothing to settle her irritation with him stomping away from her and making her chase after him.

Something, she muses darkly, she's been doing far too much of for far too long.

That she's even thinking such things is its own problem, she knows.

But…he's her husband, and they've worked so hard to be together and –

"What happened between you and the Queen?" he demands, snapping towards her, his steps aggressive and his hook swinging upwards, the afternoon sun glinting dangerously off of it.

"What?" she asks dumbly, and immediately winces.

Because playing dumb is well beneath her, and she had come out here to tell him the truth.

That he seems to know already – or at least suspect – throws her off.

And makes her realize just how much she and Regina haven't really been fooling anyone.

"When you took the lad to Boston, you and the Queen left together and came back differently."

"Regina," Emma reminds him, recognizing how he's trying to dehumanize Regina into some kind of enemy. She supposes that it's at least somewhat fair, but it's also unproductive.

"What happened?" he demands again, his good hand clenching.

"We can't un-ring this bell," Emma warns him, and thinks it absurd that part of her still wants to bury this away. But then, both she and Regina had decided to, and that's gotten them nowhere.

Problem is, the truth doesn't always set you free.

Sometimes, it just destroys everything.

"Be courageous, Swan," he tells her, his voice a furious sneer. "Tell me the truth for _once_."

"Regina and I, we didn't mean for it to happen. It just –"

"You had sex with her," he says plainly, his jaw grinding as he forces the words out.

"Yes," Emma admits, swallowing, hands balling, the diamond of her ring pressing into her palm. It's never felt heavier or more noticeable to her, the weight of it suddenly almost too much.

"And your excuse? Did you forget you were married to me and not her? Did she?"

"No. We just…we both had a lot to drink and –"

"You were drunk, and she seduced you."

"No. That's…that's not what happened."

His brow furrows as he tries to understand. "Did she take advantage of you?"

"No," Emma says again. "I made the choice, too. We both had a lot to drink, but neither one of us was…we both knew what we were doing. It'd be easy, but…this is not all on her. It's not."

"Of course not. You made the decision to –" his lip curls up into a disgusted sneer, and Emma is struck by the understanding of just how much her husband and her best friend truly do loathe each other; the years have passed and they have seemed to come to a quiet kind of truce, but it's clear to her now just how much of a lie that is. Much like every other bit of peace there had seemed to be. "But you're my wife," he finishes. "I plan to keep you around. Her, though –"

"Hey," Emma repeats, eyes glittering dangerously. "I am not a possession, and you are not –" his words trail off when she looks into his eyes, wide and hurt. Exhaling slowly, she deflates, sadness and disappointment in herself overtaking the anger she'd felt on Regina's behalf. "This is insane. Killian, I'm sorry. I am so sorry about what I did. I…it's on me. Not on her."

"Of course, it's on her. She knew that you were married, too. But as always, she took whatever she wanted. I bet she was laughing to herself the whole time about what she took from me."

"She didn't take anything and…this needs to be about us, not her."

He nods. "So, then, I can expect you'll be cutting her of our lives so it can be about us?"

"I –"

"Aye, I didn't think so. Because it isn't actually about us, Emma. It's always about her. Which means you would sacrifice anything and everything for her. Including our marriage."

"No! This _is_ about us. It's about us, and it's about…I'm not trying to sacrifice our marriage. I'm trying to tell you we have issues. I'm telling you this is about the things we haven't said to each other. It's about trying to be happy, and how we're not nearly as happy as we should be."

"Come up with whatever lies you want, but until five minutes ago, Emma, I was happy."

"Were you? We don't talk about any of our problems. We just smile and hit the sheets and –"

"There's nothing wrong with that," he cuts in. "We're man and wife – that's what we're supposed to be doing, need I remind you." He laughs bitterly. "But seeming as you had no problem hitting the sheets with her; perhaps it's just me you have issues doing that with."

"I screwed up."

"Yeah," he nods. "You certainly screwed something. Tell me, was she good? Did you like it –"

"Killian, I want to make this better. I do. But if you think that I'm going to allow –"

"Do you want to make it better? Do you, really? Am I who you want to be with, Swan? Or is it her? You know, I always knew that she had a thing for you, but I didn't really think much of it. I didn't believe that you were into her or women at all. I really thought that you were mine."

"No, I'm mine," Emma tells him, her voice quiet. Part of her thinks to argue with his assessment of Regina, but considering her intent is to try to clear the decks and figure out where to go from here, it seems a poor choice to advocate on behalf of Regina. Even if he's dead wrong.

And he is, she thinks, and then roughly brushes the thought away. Because defending Regina's honor is probably not the best way to convince him of her sincerity.

Sincerity that she's not entirely sure she feels. But she'd married Hook, and said for better or worse and…

…and she'd dragged her entire family through literal hell for this relationship.

It has to mean something, she thinks. It has to be real enough to survive anything after that; they _have_ to make it.

Because that's the fairytale, right?

Hook makes what sounds like a laughing sound, but it's more of a harshly chuckled growl. "Empowerment doesn't look so good on you when it's being used to defend your mistress."

Emma flinches at that, trying not to imagine how poorly Regina would take to that term.

Which…is probably exactly why Killian had applied it to her.

"This has to be about us," Emma tells him. "I'm responsible for what happened. I did it. You want to be angry at someone? Be angry at me. You want to hate someone? Then hate me."

"An attractive proposition," he concedes. "But we both know that I never could."

"You did when you were the Dark One."

"Are you using that as justification for fucking the Queen?"

"No. But I am saying that we never discussed that. Or any of the issues between us." She winds her hand through her hair, glancing out at the water for a long moment before returning her eyes to his and saying softly, "I don't want excuses, Killian; I'm not looking for a defense for what I did. There is none. I fucked up. But…it didn't happen just because. We weren't happy."

"I was."

"Fine, you were. But I wasn't."

"Bullshit," he growls. He taps the side of his head with his finger. "The bitch is in your head."

"I'm no victim. Certainly not of her."

He nods, seeming to finally absorb her words. "You didn't answer my question from before. I think you owe me an answer. Did you enjoy it?" he demands, his face twisted. "Did you enjoy bedding down with a woman who has literally bathed in blood? Did you enjoy having –"

"Okay," she interrupts. "I'm going to walk away now."

"I'm sure you are. Back to her."

"Yeah," Emma concedes. "Because right now, we have a problem, and I need her help to fix it."

"Which I'm sure you love. Since quiet and peace never made you happy."

"We need to talk," Emma urges. "When all of this is over –"

"Just go to her," he says, waving his hook dismissively at her. "You've made your choice."

"I haven't made any choice," she stresses. "I'm just trying –"

"To explain why you cheated on me."

"No," Emma tells him. "Yes. I'm trying to be honest."

"That'd be a first."

"Are you actually fucking serious right now? You've lied to me a hundred times, and I've forgiven you for them all," Emma retorts. "I chose you, Killian. I chose to be with you –"

"But you didn't choose to love me, did you?"

"Yes! Yes, I did!"

"Only until she spread her legs."

Her palm against his cheek makes a fairly loud crack, she thinks, and it's kind of a surreal and almost disconnected thought that almost overwhelms the actual act of slapping him, but the dark surprise in his eyes brings her back to reality. The truth is that she's afraid of no one, but his anger is intense and sparking, and she knows that they need to de-escalate this quickly.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, blinking as she stares at the bright red mark on his bearded face. Her hand stretches out as if to touch him, but rapidly falls away, as if she realizes that tenderness after such a strong (warranted, she thinks vehemently) reaction would certainly not be welcomed by him.

"So am I," he answers, his hand reaching up to touch his cheek. He forces an overly large almost cruel looking smile, then. "But we have this godforsaken town to save, don't we?" He appears to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. "No, it can bloody well rot for all I care."

He stalks away, then, up the plank and to his boat.

She watches, tears in her eyes. Feeling everything all at once.

Heartbreak, relief, sadness, fear, excitement…too much.

He's right, though: there's a town to be saved.

Everything else – dealing with this mess, in particular – will have to wait until after that.

* * *

 _ **then.**_

He's waiting for her when she gets home, an almost lazy smile on his lips as he puts down his beer and pulls her into his arms, hugging her tight. It's almost too much, but then everything is, and she reminds herself that he's just trying to take care of her; and she can't let the stress of Henry and his daughter and that new blonde woman with them crawl under her skin.

She can't allow that. Won't allow them to make her restless and thoughtless again.

Won't be stupid enough to upset him enough to cause a repeat of two weeks ago.

"Hi," he says, his hands on her face. He kisses her, and she swallows against the ripe taste of tobacco, too used to it to really be bothered by it for more than a few seconds. He's always kissed aggressively, and she remembers enjoying it when they'd first met, being thrilled by the passion he'd shown her. How much he wanted to touch her – wanted her – at all times.

Sometimes, it's suffocating. Most of the time, it's exhausting. But he loves her, and he keeps her from being all alone in this terrible worthless world, and she's so goddamn afraid of that.

"Hey, easy," he urges, steering her towards the couch. He's down on one of his knees, then, removing her shoes, and gently rubbing at her very sore feet. "You look stressed out, baby."

"It was a long day," Elizabeth replies. "I just want to sleep."

"Soon," he assures her. He leans up and kisses her again, her arms wrapping around her, holding her to him. He swings his body around, and tucks her against him, swinging her legs up and over him. "You've been all kinds of tense lately, Lizzie. I know that's partially my fault because my mood has been so bad, but I think we need just a new few days of quiet time."

"That sounds nice," she admits absently, trying to push away the thoughts from the diner.

"I know," he nods, letting go of her feet, and rising up so that he can sit beside her on the couch. Then, noticing her distraction, he asks, "Did something happen tonight?"

"Just a lot on my mind," she murmurs. "Too many thoughts."

"Well, let them go." He puts his hand against the side of her head and pulls her against him, resting her head against his chest, his fingers weaving into her hair. "You're home now."

"Home," Elizabeth repeats, thinking about the many things that she isn't allowed to say. Knowing that he doesn't want to actually talk about that night from a few weeks ago.

The yellow finally almost completely gone beneath the thick caking on of her make-up.

He'd apologized the morning after, kissed her and held her and said she'd worried him. Told him she'd scared him, and he had reacted. Promised her that he'd do so much better.

And then showed up at the diner a few days after she'd gone back. Just to make sure she was okay. She thinks that that hadn't been the reason, but knows better than to say as much.

He cares, Trev tells her as he kisses the top of her hair. He loves her more than anyone else ever will or ever could, he assures her. Dinner is in the oven for her, and maybe afterwards, he'll draw her a nice warm bubble bath. Like old times, he says, hands rubbing at her shoulders.

Before there was so much stress.

She tries to think about those times, but her head always hurts when she does. Scars from the brain damage of her accident from many years previous. Things better left not thought about.

He rubs at her temples when she winces, and says, "Shh, baby, I've got you. It's okay."

"I want to be happy," she murmurs, and doesn't know where that's coming from.

"We are happy," he promises her. "You just need to trust me. I always take care of you."

"I want a child," Elizabeth whispers, and these strange thoughts keep coming to her.

She blames Henry and Lucy and that Emma Swan woman. Because even now when she closes her eyes, she can see Lucy hugging the woman.

And she can feel Lucy's arms around her.

Trev strokes her hair as he softly says, "We've been through this, baby; your body won't allow it, and I'm not about to take in someone else's stray. And neither of us would be good at it."

"No," she allows. "We wouldn't." A tear falls down her cheek, splashing against her collar.

"Hey," he says. "Not everyone is good at everything. I know you think you want a kid – I thought so, too; but I think maybe you not being able to, that's nature telling us you weren't meant to be a mom. Telling us both. I think this is best for us." He kisses her on the top of her head again. "You've never handled stress particularly well; you don't need some screaming kid ragging your nerves with their needy hollering. We're better this way, Lizzie. You're better."

Unable to find the words to agree with him, she just nods.

And tells herself as Trev gathers her closer to him, that it's the interference of these new people in her life causing her all of these insane thoughts. She tells herself that it's this boy who keeps looking at her like he knows her, and his daughter who makes something in the middle of her bloom warm so warm. And now, now maybe it's the blonde with knowing green eyes as well.

Eyes that gaze at her like she can somehow see right into Elizabeth's soul.

Those people are just confusing her. Making her forget about what matters. The usual peace and quiet she has here with Trev.

He's her family, her love. Her security. He's all that matters.

She dips her head against him again, and closes her eyes.

He murmurs, "You're safe."

Part of her refutes that, tells her that this isn't what safety or happiness feels like. The rest of her tells her to be quiet. To accept that sometimes safety just feels more like someone who won't ever let you go.

She tries to block out Lucy's arms squeezing tight around her middle, and she tries not to see the way that Henry and the blonde woman had looked at her. Like they know her. They don't.

Only Trev does.

He tells her as much, and waits for her to agree; when she does, he lifts her up.

Telling her that dinner will hold for later, that they just need time together. That she just needs him to remind her how beautiful she is.

How loved and protected she is.

She hears him say, "It's okay, baby, it's okay. I love you. I love you."

And feels the mattress against her back, his lips on her neck as he removes her clothes.

Her skin itches, and she feels like she can't breathe. Like all of the oxygen is literally being torn away from her. These are bad thoughts, absurd ones. _She knows better._

These thoughts are not the way to happiness.

Hearing him urge her to relax, Elizabeth forces her body to soften against him, to accept his eager touch. She pulls him closer to her, her eyes closed to stop tears from leaking out.

To stop from seeing the shattering world around her.

One hand settles over her belly, empty and cold. She'd come to peace with never being a mother – even learned to be okay with it. She has no idea why she's suddenly not okay with it.

She has no idea why everything suddenly feels wrong and misshapen.

She's terrified, and –

Trev kisses her, and she tries to forget about everything. Every thought and every emotion.

What a shame that life just doesn't seem to work that way.

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"We're probably too late," Rumple sighs, his fingers dancing along Regina's temples; she's never been especially fond of this kind of communication between teacher and student, a form of telepathy that only they can…enjoy. He could have used a dreamcatcher, of course, but he'd insisted that feeling her actual impressions of what she'd seen in her vision mattered.

He's a bastard, but just as afraid of his own mother, and so she hadn't disputed him.

That doesn't mean that she doesn't feel like he'd just taken an icepick to her brain.

"Are you done?" she asks him, a hand settling over one of his. She looks up at Snow and David, who are both watching the entire scene with a thousand emotions playing across their faces.

Almost all of them showing shades of some kind of fear and anger.

It's been a few years since the last time they'd had to assemble to fight, and though some might have thought that the Charmings were ready for the next battle, that's just not the case.

David is clutching his sleeping toddler against him, eyes wide and worried, hands fidgeting. Wondering what they're all about to have to fight for.

"I'm done," Rumple says, and steps away, moving back towards his own wife and son.

Regina stands, taking Zelena's hand for long enough to get her bearings. The world shifts out of focus as Rumple disconnects their psychic bond (she tries not to think about how easily she could form the same with Emma – best not to think about Emma at all considering where she is and what she is likely saying to her husband). When it stabilizes, Regina offers her sister a quick appreciative smile, and then moves away, walking over to David, and offering up her arms to him. There's a pause as he tries to understand, but then he recognizes that she's asking for Neal, and with a nod, he hands his son over to the woman; seeming to realize that right now, she needs the tie to this small little boy who has no idea about how wrong the world can be.

"You okay?" Snow asks, reaching out to gently touch her elbow. Seeming to recognize just off-kilter Regina is, and understanding that it's far more than just her residual dizziness at play.

"I'm miles from okay," Regina admits, surprising everyone, but not allowing Snow time to follow up on it. "Rumple, why do you think it's too late?" she asks, bringing Neal's head to her shoulder. When he moves, murmuring a garbled version of her name, she smiles warmly at him, resting her lips against his sandy colored hair as she urges him back towards sleep. She knows that she'll have to hand him back over to his parents shortly; Snow is just as anxious as she is, but for the time being at least, he's here with her, and his calm and youthful lack of awareness is centering her. It's reminding her what they all will be fighting for.

"I suspect that by tonight she will be fully reformed," Rumple says grimly, glancing down at the smears of black dust across the floor of his store. It's somewhat perverse to think of it as parts of his mother, but he supposes that it's all just a kind of residue – shadows of her twisted evil.

He'd always thought himself the worst of it, but as it turns out, his mother really is much worse.

And much harder to kill.

"Perhaps after this, we can convince Miss Swan to stay away from things she doesn't understand," he muses, stepping behind the counter and reaching for a book beneath it.

"Yeah, probably not," Emma says as she enters, the tension in her body unmistakable.

It's the redness of her eyes, though, that Regina notices the most.

She thinks to say something, to go to Emma and check on her, but this isn't the time for that. And she's done enough harm and damage already.

"Where's Hook?" David asks.

"He needed a few minutes," Emma answers cryptically. "He's a bit…overwhelmed."

Zelena snorts indelicately at that, drawing a sharp look of rebuke from Regina. She lifts her hands in what is probably meant to be some kind of apology, but somehow fails at that.

"So, we need a plan, then," Belle cuts in, and she's moving to Rumple's side, placing one of her hands lightly on his forearm, before dropping it down and clutching his fingers with hers.

"Can we gather your mother back and box her all up again?" Zelena asks. She wrinkles her nose at her own words, then, "Sounds a bit twisted and perverse when you say it quite like that."

Rumple tilts his head, thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. I suppose we could…attract the dust towards us before she's finally gathered and direct it somewhere, but I'm not sure we could contain it –"

"We don't have to," Emma says suddenly, eyes wide. She turns towards Regina, excitement written across her pale features in broad colorful strikes. "Regina, remember the chernabog?"

Regina's brow furrows as she tries to push her memory several years into the past, towards the first real steps taken in their friendship. "That winged bat thing that tried to kill us both?"

How much has changed since then – how far they've come along the twisted road. Perhaps not to a good place at all judging by the redness in Emma's eyes.

Still, that's for a time after this problem has been dealt with. That's a heartbreak for later.

For now, Emma is looking at her like she's the only one who understanding, and she savors it.

Consumes it.

"Yes. Remember how we got rid of it?"

Regina's eyes light up. "We took it the other side of the town line." She steps towards Emma, and for a moment, none of their problems are there; and it's just the two of them and the familiar energy and chemistry that has always drawn them together. Excitement crackles between them, and the rest of the room could have vanished for all that they see around them.

But nothing ever stays so easy, and right now, things are anything but easy.

"Could that work?" Zelena interjects, her voice like a shotgun as she looks over at her teacher.

Rumple considers it. "Gather the dust behind you like the Pied Piper, and lead her across the line to where there's not enough magic to sustain her," he spells out. "It's…possible."

"You have doubts?" David observes.

"It almost seems too easy," Rumple confesses.

"Do we have another option?" Belle queries.

"No," Regina says immediately, and then she's kissing Neal on the head again, and handing him to Snow so that she can move closer to Emma. "Our first priority has to be to get rid of it."

"And we don't have a lot of time," Emma continues.

"Indeed. She'll be fully formed by this evening. And fully powerful," Rumple says gravely.

"So, we're doing this, then," Zelena sighs.

"No, we are," Regina tells her, turning towards her. "I need you back here with Rumple standing in defense of the town in case we fail. Which means that it needs to be me and Emma."

"And me."

Every head in the shop turns to see Hook standing in the doorway, silhouetted by darkness.

"Killian," Emma murmurs, but makes no move to go to him.

He smiles grimly as he steps into the shop. "I figured I should be all in with _my_ family, aye?" He moves over to Emma and wraps an arm around her, the smell of rum rising up from him.

She looks at him, thinks to mention it, but then decides this isn't the time for such words. She's already hurt him enough – she doesn't need to humiliate him as well.

Regina, on the other hand, doesn't seem to feel the same reserve. "You're drunk," she states.

"And you're a whore."

"Excuse me?" she demands, her eyes flashing.

"Okay, everyone needs to just…take a breath," David pleads, stepping forward.

"Killian," Emma urges, turning him by the arm. "Please."

"Please, what? Be kind? Don't tell the truth? Weren't you just yelling me for the many lies between us? Well, the…lady asked a question. Perhaps we should answer it for everyone."

"Oh, secret time," Zelena observes brightly, getting a sharp glare from Regina.

"Secrets, yes," Hook agrees. "Such as what the two of them did in Boston. Tell them, Your Majesty. Tell the Charmings here how you fucked their married daughter. _My_ wife."

"Regina," Snow breathes.

"No, this is absurd," Regina growls. "You want to have it out, you brainless moron? Fine. I'm happy to show you what a pathetic waste of subhuman flesh you are, you disease ridden –"

"Regina, please," Emma pleads, wondering if she's about to scream or cry. Realizing that there's no way out of this mess where she doesn't lose everything that she's ever fought for.

Regina looks over at her, the anger softening as she sees the torment in Emma's eyes. Oh, every part of her wants to rip Hook apart, but this isn't the time for it. "Fine," she says. " _Fine_."

"You really do think you're better than me, don't you?" Hook demands, laughing cruelly.

Rumple clears his throat. "As amusing as this all is, need I remind you that we don't have time for this. Regina is right: if we don't stop my mother, none of this will matter, and we can all fight about who slept with Miss Swan out of wedlock down in the Underworld for millennia."

"Rumple," Belle admonishes, and then she's stepping in front of the counter, smiling as she tries to take on a placating approach with the furiously emotional room. "What he's trying to say is that we must focus on getting the dust outside of Storybrooke. Everything else, can wait."

"She's right," Snow insists. "We need to focus on that."

Zelena snorts, but then waves her hand dismissively as if to suggest she meant nothing by that.

"She _is_ right," Hook agrees. "But I'm not letting my wife and the Queen go anywhere together."

"I'm not a possession," Emma reminds him again (this whole conversation feels like just a repeat from the one at the docks – but much worse), her voice almost too low to be heard. She reaches out and places a hand on the wall, using it for balance as it all becomes just too much.

"Emma," David murmurs, a hand on her elbow; she nods gratitude to him, and grips his hand.

"I don't believe your opinion was asked for," Regina growls as she again moves towards Hook, looking like she's considering ripping his heart from him. "And need I remind you, _Pirate_ –"

"Time is running out," David insists.

"You don't have any magic. In fact, you're useless at everything besides getting drunk."

"Seems to me you handled the drunk part just fine," Hook retorts. "Like most whores –"

It's only Snow grabbing her around the middle and pulling her back that stops her from launching herself at Hook, her eyes blazing with a familiar kind of murderous fury. As it turns out, she really doesn't need the Evil Queen within her to be capable of wanting a man dead

Especially this man.

"Enough!" Emma yells suddenly, pushing away from her father and moving between them. Her voice lowers, then, cracking at the middle. "Enough. Please." To Hook, she says, "You want this fight, fine, we can all have it tomorrow morning. But not tonight. Tonight, I want to live."

"And I want to be happy, but you both stole that from me," he replies, his shoulders sagging.

"We weren't happy," Emma tells him again, just as she had at the docks. "I wasn't."

And again, he says, "But, I was."

Emma visibly deflates; they'd had this conversation before of course, but in this moment, the visible weight of his heartbreak and what he believes that he'd lost feels like too much.

It feels like failure in everything that she has ever wanted to be.

Suddenly, she wants to be anywhere but here.

This room.

This town.

Anywhere else.

Suddenly, she wants to be anyone else besides herself.

Anyone who isn't the Savior, Wife and Best Friend in this whole mess. Anyone who hadn't failed them all, and doesn't know a way back from any of this.

But she is all of those things and more, and this town is once again in chaos; so she looks away from the turbulently emotional eyes of Regina and Hook and her parents, and turns to Rumple and asks, "We need to Pied Piper your mom; how do we do it? How do we get to tomorrow?"

"Magic attracts magic," Rumple says grimly, looking first at Emma, and then over at Regina and Hook, who are still being separated by the Charmings. He returns his gaze to Emma, cool and calculating as always, "The timing for your indiscretion is quite poor, I'm afraid because in order to get the Black Fairy across the town-line, you and Regina are going to have to put on a show."

"Of course, we are," Emma sighs. "Just tell us what we have to do, and let's get this over with."

* * *

 _ **then.**_

Lucy is almost ten, and surely doesn't need to be read to, anymore, but when she asks Emma to do so, Emma doesn't even think to refuse her. What she reads – what Lucy hands to her – are pages from the book Henry has been reconstructing. It's the story of how she and Regina had once defeated the chernabog, and her throat closes up several times around the old words.

When it's over, and Lucy is sleeping, she presses a kiss to the little girl's forehead, and holds it there for a moment, terrified that if she moves too quickly, she'll start sobbing like a child.

"Mom," she hears from behind her.

She takes a few more breaths, doesn't move.

Neither does he. He just waits until she finally rises. Until they're outside of Lucy's room, the door closed behind them.

"Mom," he says again.

She turns into his arms, gripping him.

A mother who should be stronger for the son who has been without his mothers. A friend who needs to be stronger because someone she loves dearly needs her more than she ever has.

They have to save Regina. _She_ has to save her.

And she will, Emma tells herself.

She will find a way to make all of this right. As right as it can ever be again.

Right now, though, she needs to save herself. She just wishes she knew how.

She feels Henry's arms around her. Hears him say, "Go ahead."

She hesitates, the years where she didn't dare to let go pulling her back. But his arms are strong, and he just keeps saying, "Mom."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, not sure what she's apologizing for besides everything.

"No," he says. "I believe in you. I always will."

"I'll fix this," she promises him.

"We'll fix this," Henry tells her. "You're not alone."

She nods, her face contorting, the tears coming. Slow and then like a dam –

Emma Swan _breaks_.

:D


	7. Six

_**A/N: Apologies; seems I'm on a two week schedule now. In any case, we are reaching the halfway point so strap in.  
**_

 _ **Content warnings: some language, some vague implications of self-abuse, violence, and Hook acting out in a pretty major way due to his hurt and betrayal.  
**_

 _ **Let me know your thoughts - crazy times ahead for our ladies.**_

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"Magic," Regina explains to them, sounding both excited and exhausted as she gestures with her hands. "No surprise to anyone in this room, I'm sure –" she smiles somewhat wryly at that. "But magic, and more of it than we have ever used before."

"Of course," Killian notes, nodding his head. His words sound accommodating, even genial, but his eyes are dark and his lip is quirked into a furious sneer as he glares angrily over at Regina.

"Killian," Emma murmurs, but her eyes are on Regina and Gold; both of them are standing right next to the counter, peering down at the massive book which is open in front of them. He lifts up his good hand in a display of surrender to the point, but his body posture remains sharp.

Understandably so, Emma thinks, but she knows that they don't have time to dwell on such things. In a few hours, once this crisis has been averted and everyone is back to watering their lawns and paying their electricity bills as if Storybrooke is just another normal every day town, then she knows that she and Hook will need to sit down and figure out where to go from here.

Assuming there is anywhere left to go.

She figure she and Regina will need to figure that out as well.

First things first – the dust continues to swirl around town; she's been getting calls on her police radio for the last hour about car crashes thanks to low visibility, and the people in this town have never exactly been adept at handling problems of the magical kind. If they don't get this threat disposed of rather quickly, there's going to be a mad panic.

"How?" Emma presses. "Do we just…toss it around?"

"Not quite," Gold sighs, throwing Regina a long-suffering gaze. Emma has a pretty good idea that it's some kind of super judgmental statement about the inferiority of her student.

Were tonight not already fucked enough, she might have even said something to him about it, but she figures she can only tolerate so many battlefronts at one time. So, she turns her head to Regina, and looks at the one person whom she knows won't beat around the bush right now.

"We need to power up," Regina tells her. "That means you and I combine our magic to the point where we're essentially pure energy, and we use it as a magnet for the Black Fairy."

"That almost sounds easy," Emma notes.

"Sure," Zelena agrees from where she's standing next to Snow and David. "As long as you don't burn yourselves out, it should be a right piece of cake." There's agitation in her tone, a clear display of how displeased she is with this plan of theirs. Or perhaps, Emma suspects, that Regina is going to be the one in the middle of it. So much has happened over the last few years, but one of the most interesting bits of evolution has been how close Regina and Zelena have become.

Oh, they'd been repairing their relationship long before Storybrooke seemed to change from center of all magical chaos to sleepy little fishing town, but it truly is strong and real now.

Which is probably why Zelena seems so unsettled by the danger they're all about to undertake.

But Regina's no stranger to danger – none of them are, and if she's more anxious about this than usual, she's not showing it. Instead, crossing over to Zelena, and lightly squeezing her sister's bicep, she says to Emma, "It's far from easy. Zelena is right; it will be a lot of magic."

"How do we mitigate the risks?" Emma queries.

Hook snorts, earning himself an icy look from the Queen; one which he answers in kind.

Emma finds herself wondering if there's a way to talk Hook out of joining them on this mission all the while knowing that there's absolutely no chance that he will leave her and Regina alone.

Which, Emma supposes, is fair considering what had gone on between them in Boston.

But it's also a problem because right now they don't have time for any of their personal issues.

"I can help with that," Belle says, her sunny voice a somewhat strange departure from the amped up tension in the room; even Snow and David are on edge, seemingly aware that everything is changing around them, and the calm assumed happiness over the last few years is being somewhat exposed as the fairytale (pun intended, Emma muses darkly) that it has been.

"How?" Regina asks, moving away from Zelena and back towards Belle.

"As Zelena noted, both of you are going to be channeling a lot of very strong magic through your bodies, and it can be quite dangerous for you, but if I understand how this works – and how it's been done before – I think we can outfit both of you with protective wards."

"Like shields?" Emma asks.

"Exactly." She holds up a garish looking medallion. "With the right protective potion –"

"It can basically do what Baelfire's scarf did for you when you crossed the town-line only in this case, it'll protect us from the power surge that joining our two life-forced will create," Regina finishes, looking at Gold, the excitement of new magic knowledge making her eyes light up.

Gold nods, "In theory. But the risks remain. Any time you combine such potent magic –"

"What choice do we have?" Emma interrupts, her voice quiet.

"None," he acknowledges. "If you don't get the dust out of town, my mother will return and –"

"I have a question," Hook asks, sharply interrupting. "Why aren't you, Dark One, and our dearly beloved Queen pairing your magic? Why is that my wife is the one who has to join with her?"

Emma closes her eyes, knowing that even attempting to talk him down will be useless.

"As it so happens," Regina starts to answer.

"I wasn't asking you, Witch."

"Come the fuck on," Emma growl, one hand balled and the other out to stop Snow from interceding.

"No, you don't get to defend her," Hook says. "And she doesn't get to speak to me."

"You think I take orders from you?" Regina retorts. "Dream on, you disease-ridden –"

"Time is running out," Gold cuts in. "You can have your marital drama, and we can all end up being destroyed by yet another bad choice of Miss Swan's, or you can all stop arguing like any of this actually matters in the long run and do something about saving this quaint town of yours. In order for this to work, you have to be in perfect sync with one another. You have to both be beyond internal wars or strife and be able to channel all of your elemental forces."

"You make it sound so easy," Emma states.

"It's anything but," Gold corrects. "But it's what must be done. You and Regina, you have always found a way to put everything else away when it matters. You need to do that now."

Killian turns away from the group at that, pacing to the opposite wall and nudging it with his foot, his hook slapping hard against the denim of his pants as he tries to find control again.

As he tries to accept the idea that his wife and the Queen will be joining their magic together; he doesn't know a huge amount about such things, but that sound deeply intimate to him.

Ignorant of Hook's simmering thoughts – or perhaps just disinterested in them, he muses darkly Regina turns to Belle and asks, "How long will it take you to prepare our…defenses?"

"An hour," she replies.

"Which is about all the time we have," Gold states grimly, looking out the window, and noticing how the black dust has continued to gather, now thickly coating all of the glass panes.

"Do it," Emma says, feeling like she's being suffocated. "And let's get this all over with."

* * *

 _ **then.**_

It's just a little bit funny to him (though perhaps, arguably not in that ha-ha way so much as a kind of sad and even bittersweet too-many-years missed kind of way), because they both know that despite appearances to the opposite, Emma is not actually sleeping.

They both know that she's just faking being asleep for his benefit. She's doing it because she seems to understand that he has an almost pathological need to confirm that she actually is really and truly here with him. Her breathing regulated – a trick she'd picked up in prison to get guards to move on and not pay too much attention to her – her eyes are closed and she has a hand rested loosely on her chest, her fingers just over where she can feel her heartbeat.

Henry shifts against the door-frame, the cup of tea in his hands warm against his palms as he watches Emma "sleep". He thinks about just talking to her, perhaps trying to find out what's going on in her mind. He wants to asks her to be honest with him about all of the demons in there (and though she doesn't know what's on his mind, she finds herself wanting the same of him), but maybe it's not the time for such deep and desperately frank and truthful conversations.

Perhaps, they first need to actually realize that yes, she's truly away from that terrible place with the cement and steel, and what comes next should be better. Or at least it could be better than this, and that's where he feels the fear chill his blood. Because there's still a dark curse, and a villain, and his other mom who has no idea who she is or who any of them are to her.

He's a man now, but with the stunted heart and hopes of a young boy despite all this time that made him see darkness where before he only recognized light; he knows that getting Regina out of this mess is going to be a lot more difficult than paying a lawyer an ungodly sum.

"Kid," he hears. He blinks and looks up, and she's staring at him, her green eyes tired, but somehow knowing. She hasn't aged in a decade thanks to the curse (and she's struggling with just how much he has), yet she still looks like the weight of everything is rested hard on her shoulders. But she's smiling at him as much as she can, not quite hope because she doesn't really understand the emotion anymore, but more like recognition of his troubled thoughts.

"Mom," he says softly, and moves into the room, stopping just a few feet away from the bed, careful not to invade her personal space her before she gives him permission to do so (he'd called his therapist a few days ago – and gods how he misses Archie – and asked him specifically about how to deal with someone who had been behind bars for so long; the answer he had received was "be mindful, considerate and aware of their tells".) "Is it okay if I sit down?"

"Your house, Henry."

He smiles at her thinly. "I'm sure you don't really want to talk about everything you went through, and I'm okay with that. I'm okay with whatever you need right now, but…I need you to understand that you're safe here. I didn't ask you that question as a common courtesy, I asked you because I know you haven't had many people ask you what you wanted…not for a while."

His words – too old for the boy she remembers, the one she'd last seen ten years ago, during a Skype call. He was so young and carefree there, forgetting plans to meet with his moms, and falling for girls, and God she just wishes that they could all go back to those strange days, and realize everything they had in their hands. It wasn't always perfect, and there were dreams which were more false starts than true beginnings, but there were so many good things, too.

But wishes are pointless (deep in the back of her memory, she can still recall another world where she'd been a singing princess, and no, wishes never do work out as you'd hope no matter the intentions – good or bad), and all they have now is this broken not quite complete family of theirs and a decade worth of nightmares and cracked dreams to try to sort through.

And a mission.

It's something.

"Okay," Emma nods. Then pats the bed next to her. "Sit."

He does, pulling his legs up so that they're essentially stretched out next to each other.

He says, "I know come tomorrow, we need to have a plan, and we need to do what we've always done –" he grins, and for a short few seconds, he might as well be ten years old again, because even though this situation is almost unspeakably awful, the excitement of an operation is enough to get his mind whirling again. He's shared a few small ones with Lucy over the years, but nothing like the ones he'd enjoyed with his mothers. Returning to one now feels right.

"Save the world," Emma murmurs.

"Save mom," he corrects.

"You know she'd hate us thinking of it that way," Emma reminds him. "Your mom could –" she stops abruptly, recognizing that she's talking about Regina in the past tense. Like she's gone.

She kind of is – stuck within this new personality, unable to dig herself out thanks to the curse.

"I know," he agrees. "I keep thinking, maybe I'll just kidnap her one of these days –"

"Henry –"

"Get her out of there, and try to talk some sense into her."

"You can't."

"Because Regina has to be buried somewhere beneath the surface of Elizabeth, right?"

"No," Emma tells him, suddenly sounding incredibly tired. "That's not how it works."

"Mom –"

"Hey, I'm pretty wiped out. It's been a…a day. You mind if we talk in the morning?"

"Of course not," he says, standing up. Then, tilting his head, "I said something, didn't I?"

"No!" she answers quickly – too quickly. Her eyes are wide and startled, and he tries not to think about what might have caused such a frantic almost fearful reaction from Emma. She doesn't give him much time to think about it, though, because then she's forcing a smile, and her voice is softening into something almost compliant as she says, "Of course not. No. No."

"You have a story," he says. "About how you ended up where you did. In prison."

"We all have stories," she tells him, her eyes glazing over.

"You don't want to tell me yours."

"Not yet. I need to…not living in the immediacy of it, it's still taking me some time to adjust to. I spent a lot of time inside my regrets over what happened, and I don't know if I'm yet willing to talk about them, and make them…better. I'm not sure if I have the right to make them better."

"We all have the right to be better," he replies, choosing not to tell her that thanks to his powers as the author, he already knows a fair amount about what had happened to her, and what she's been through over the last decade. He could tell her that, but the truth is that he doesn't know everything, and even if he did, a time will come when Emma needs to talk. "You understand her, don't you? You understand Elizabeth, and why she is the way that she is?"

"Unfortunately," Emma admits quietly, looking back up at him. "Seems like no matter who we are, your mom and I seem to understand each other more than we have any right to."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"I think it will help me…help her, but no, what she and I have been through…it's not good."

"What can I do?" he queries, feeling the wall against his back. It's a strange thing to be so suddenly aware, but the writer in him finds himself thinking about the walls Emma felt.

And the ones his other mother surely feels even if she's not entirely aware of why.

"Be our lighthouse, Henry," Emma answers, tears in her eyes as she thinks of all the times when this boy – this man – has been the only thing which has kept both her and Regina from falling into darkness and despair. "No matter what, you've always been that."

"I can do that."

"And promise me – _promise me_ – that you'll do anything for that perfect little girl of yours."

He grins back at her, something of a strange expression considering the vehement words which she'd just said to him. "Anything," he promises her. "Cross realms, destroy and rebuild whole worlds if that's what I have to do to protect her. Just as both my mothers have done for me."

He's expecting a smile from her, a loosening of her shoulders.

A relaxing of the desperate tension cording her body.

What he gets instead is her saying softly, her voice breaking, and her eyes filling up with tears as the past crashes down on her like a thousand-pound weight. "Oh, Kid, we didn't mean to."

* * *

 _ **before.**_

"You're worried," Emma notes, looking back into the pensive faces of both of her parents. Both of them look as though they're about to crawl out of their skins with worry; it's hard to fault them considering how the last couple of hours have gone down. She can only imagine what they're thinking – can only imagine how incredibly disappointed they both are in her right now.

"I am; I don't like this, Emma," David tells her. "Every part of this feels wrong to me."

"All due respect," Gold says from behind the counter. "It probably should feel wrong. Your daughter and the Queen are about to corral an ungodly amount of magic between them."

"I know," David agrees. "And maybe it's that, but something…I have a bad feeling about this."

"So, do I," Regina admits as she steps out of the back of the shop, walking side-by-side with Belle. She holds up two small potion bottles, the purple fluid inside both vials bubbling harshly.

"Then maybe we need a different plan," Zelena inserts. "One not likely to get you killed."

"The Queen knows the risks," Hook states. "And unless she's a coward –"

"Oh, give it a rest," Zelena snaps at him, glaring murderous daggers at him. "I don't give a damn about the little male inferiority complex that you have going on right now, Pirate; I only care about my sister. That you couldn't keep your foolish wife from jumping ship to –"

"Zelena," Regina hisses at the same time as Emma says, "Hey!"

"It's the truth," Zelena retorts. "We can all dance around the fact that no one ever believed that they had a chance in hell of making it, but that doesn't make it not the case. Tell me, is anyone here actually surprised that –"

"The potions," Belle inserts, her words fast and urgent. "You both need to choose whatever item you want to use; it should be something that holds some kind of personal value to you."

"I'd suggest your wedding ring," Hook says, "But we both know that's meaningless to you."

"He can't come with us," Regina snaps. "If he does, we're all going to end up dead."

"Well, you're not going anywhere without me. I'm not leaving you alone with my wife again. So seems to me you have a choice, Your Majesty; we can all die or you can let me chaperone."

"We're not doing this," Emma steps in. She looks around the room, taking in all the worried faces – seeing her parents outright fear – and has a moment of thinking that there's no way out of this mess. And she's not sure if she means the one with Hook and Regina or the Fairy.

Maybe all of the messes.

"This entire town is counting on us to save their asses right now. Again. Which means that our drama needs to take a backseat for the time being. I get it: you two hate each other, and now you don't have to pretend for me or anyone else that you don't. While I'm sure that delights both of you, if you don't both pull it together, then Hook is going to end up being right and we are all going to die." She looks sharply at Regina. "In which case, then none of this will matter to anyone but our kid who won't have anyone left." Her gaze flickers over to Hook, her expression hardening. "And you? You want to continue acting like I'm a possession who needs someone to keep her pants up? Fine, we can deal with that later. Right now, if we don't as a group pull our heads out of our asses, the only thing you'll have left to pretend you own is my dead body."

"Emma," Regina admonishes, horrified by even the thought of that. To her side, Hook bristles, pulled between his seething hurt and the frightening reality that her words could come to pass.

"I need you to lead," Emma says to Regina, glad to have a reason to turn away from Hook.

To turn away from the anger and hatred streaked across his handsome face.

The betrayal.

She's a coward, and all of his feelings are justified, but she just can't deal with them right now.

Because Zelena – for all of her furious shit-kicking – is right, and what she and Regina are about to do is almost insane; to gather the kind of power behind them they need to pull the Black Fairy in her dust form along, they're going to have to nearly burn themselves alive with magic.

And as Gold had said, none of it works if they're not entirely in-sync with each other.

"I need you to channel the Queen part of you," Emma continues. "And find the badass, and we need to go do something which is fucking insane because this town needs us again, Regina."

"Okay," is all Regina replies, the anger within her dissipating, her eyes completely on Emma.

David reaches out and puts his hand on Killian's bicep, "Everything you're thinking can wait."

"Aye," Killian admits, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He tries to force something of a smile, tries to find the man inside of him who has taken many a loss and knows how to keep moving.

A voice deep in the back of his mind tells him that she's just a woman, nothing special.

But she's not, and she was his happy ending or beginning or whatever, and now it's gone.

It's gone, and the woman who had taken it away from him is standing –

"So, what will it be?" Belle asks suddenly, holding up the potions again. Her voice, high and sweet, and yet somehow understanding of all of the tension in the room, cuts through his thoughts, and makes him focus on the entire situation in front of him. The preparation of two women getting ready to go into battle. It should be normal, but nothing about them is now.

No matter what happens – even if he and Emma are able to work this out – Hook knows that he'll never be able to see the two of them together, and not think about what they'd done.

Or what they might want to do again if he just wasn't around to get in the way of them.

Regina reaches into her pocket. "A letter from Henry. Sent to Emma and I two weeks ago." She holds up a simple white envelope, Henry's still fairly childish scrawl across the front of it. She opens it up and extracts two pieces of paper – one addressed to each of his mothers. There's a third in there as well, but Regina doesn't remove it, instead handing Emma the one for her.

"It needs to stay within your possession the whole time," Belle instructs.

"That won't be a problem," Emma assures her. She starts to extend the letter out towards Belle, but then stops, frowning as she asks, "Will pouring the potion on it ruin the paper?"

"No," Gold states, stepping forward. "It will be absorbed with no harm to the item."

"Good," Emma nods, glancing over at Regina, who does the same.

All the while realizing as the two of them do exactly what they need to do and lock in-sync with each other that their problems are just starting; they won't be able to walk back from what's happened between them; and one look over at her simmering husband who hasn't been able to take his eyes off of them, and she knows that there's no chance that Killian is ever going to accept them continuing to be in each other's lives.

Emma doesn't think she knows how to not to have Regina in her life.

His feelings are legitimate, understandable, but perhaps they are also a deal-breaker for any chance of a future for them; and she's not terribly sure what that says about her as a person.

As a wife, well, she already knows that she's a complete and utter failure.

"You're sure about this?" Zelena asks softly, looking right at Regina. "This could kill you."

"So could drinking," Regina tells her, stepping forward and hugging her sister tight. "But I expect you over at my house tomorrow night for wine and bad 1980's Netflix movies."

Zelena's eyes close, her arms tightening as she tries to fight against the fear within her.

The unsettling feeling that this might be the last time she sees her baby sister.

"I'll be there," she says. She holds on for a few more seconds, and then finally, let's go.

Stepping back from Zelena, Regina moves to Belle's side, and then watches and waits as Emma hugs both of her parents, staying in their embraces just long enough to reinforce the fear they're all feeling; each of them has faced death a hundred times over, but this feels worse.

This feels like something inevitable is speeding towards them.

Something they can't stop.

Neither woman accepts such a thing, of course, but that doesn't change the feeling.

"I'm sorry I let everyone down," Emma murmurs softly, clutched against her mother and father.

She means for everything, but most of all for failing their hopes and dreams for her.

Snow says, "No, never, Emma," and Emma clutches at her tighter.

Terrified that this will be her last memory with them.

It's Gold clearing his throat which forces her to step away from them.

To give up the idealistic if not quite realistic safety of their arms.

With a smile sigh, she turns towards Regina and asks, "Ready?"

Regina nods, her lips drawn into a pensive line, which makes it clear to Emma that fear that she has, Regina feels as well. Turning together, they both extend their hands out to Belle, providing her with their letters from Henry, the rest of the envelope tucked in Regina's pocket.

Just outside the fogged over windows, the dust continues to swirl and grow thicker in mass.

Suffocating and blinding.

Belle pours the potion over both the letters, red and gold magic sparking off the pages.

Somewhere in the back of the shop, a clock chimes the hour.

Gold says, "Now that's that done, here's how to get my mother to chase you."

* * *

 _ **then.**_

Emma wakes to the sound of music.

Some kind of god awful boy band kind of thing, upbeat and snappy.

Rubbing her eyes, she looks around, uncertain of where she is; just yesterday, she'd been waking up in a cement room, and there sure as fuck hadn't been music playing.

Especially not something screeching of first love and first kisses.

But she's not there, anymore.

She's in the bedroom of her son's bought-and-paid-for very expensive apartment.

Her adult son who has a flourishing career as a writer of fairytales.

With a groan, her back muscles protesting the movement (she supposes that she will need to tell Henry about that particular injury sooner or later; eventually, the shot she'd received to help with the pain will wear off, and she'll find herself struggling to walk even five feet without hurting) Emma stands up. She stretches carefully, hears joints pop and crack and lets out a sigh.

The curse might have effectively frozen time for her and (presumably) Regina on a biological level, but apparently, nature had forgotten to get around to telling her because she sure feels a whole lot older these days. She sure feels like nothing quite works as smoothly as it once had.

She supposes a decade locked away in a series of little crowded boxes will do that to you.

She uses the bathroom quickly – embarrassingly so, and thinks that it's going to take her awhile to stop feeling the echoes of a life hyper-regulated and controlled – and then pushes the door to the bedroom open, and steps out into the hallway, the music immediately getting louder.

And then she stops.

Because right in the middle of the living room are Henry and Lucy – she standing on his feet as they dance together, Henry spinning her around and Lucy giggling with pure unbridled joy.

She watches and smiles, and thinks that she'd missed so much, but this moment is still perfect.

"Hey," she hears, Henry's voice cutting through her thoughts.

She smiles instinctively, her mind catching up to the automatic nature of her body; in prison, she'd learned to just react as expected, smile and sometimes glare, but never show anything close to true emotion or feeling. Nothing that could be used against her.

Emma reminds herself now that Henry has no interest in using anything against her; he's her son, and the only thing he wants is what she wants: to put their family back together finally.

"Hey," she says back.

"Sorry about all the racket. I hope we didn't wake you," he laughs, turning off the music.

"It's fine," Emma says with a wave of her hand. Then, to Lucy, "You've got good steps."

"My mama taught me. She was a really good dancer."

"She was a terrible dancer," Henry corrects. "She made up her own steps, and then she forced all of us to play along with her." He grins when he says this, as if lost in a wonderful memory.

Lucy scowls at him. "She told dad he had cement shoes."

"She did," Henry admits with a small wistful smile. After a moment, he shakes his head and says to Emma, "Are you hungry? I was about to make us some omelets if you're interested in one."

"Not really," Emma replies, thinking of just how much food she hasn't eaten over the years; part of it had been self-preservation, an unsettled uncertainty about just how far the touch of the Black Fairy could extend within the prison, but much of it had just been disinterest.

Perhaps depression which had made everything seem unappetizing to her.

"You can share with me," Lucy declares. "And then we can have Pajama Day."

"Pajama Day?"

"Where we stay in pajamas all day and watch movies," Henry explains.

"He does that every day," Lucy points out. "I have to look good for school."

"Hey, a little bit less telling of my secrets, all right?" Henry requests.

Lucy fixes her father with an even gaze, a reminder of how honest they are with each other.

The father who wants to always do right by his daughter, but all too often has failed her. In search of home and family, and sometimes overlooking what he has right in front of him.

But she smiles at him, and doesn't see anything but the father whom she adores.

So, he shakes his head and kisses her on the forehead and asks, "One plate or two?"

Lucy looks over at Emma. "One or two?"

It should be an easy answer, Emma thinks; the expectant gazes from Henry and Lucy suggest that they anticipate it being easy, but she finds herself freezing, the gears in her mind locking down as she tries to come up with the right answer. Share a plate with her granddaughter whom she is just getting to know or have something which is completely hers once again.

"Mom," Henry says gently, after too long has passed.

She blinks, and there's that immediate forced smile again.

An old voice deep in her mind tells her that she can't show them this much of herself. Can't show them just how horrifically damaged she is; maybe they'll reject her if they knew.

But Lucy – Lucy who couldn't possibly know of the demons in her mind – says, "Two plates!"

Emma exhales, and pushes the voices away. "Yeah, okay."

"Two plates it is," Henry agrees. "Luce, why don't you pick us out our first movie of the day?"

"Okay," she agrees, her arm going around Emma for a few seconds before she's moving away, and heading over towards the entertainment center, her brow furrowed deep in thought.

"She's a special kid," Emma observes, still tingling and warm from the simple easy touch.

"Yeah, she is. She reminds me so much of her mom sometimes."

"We both have a lot of stories to tell each other, don't we?" Emma realizes.

"We will. In time," he answers. Then, "You okay? You seem a little…stiff?"

"Sleeping on a soft mattress is a lot different than a prison bed," she answers automatically, not yet willing to let him know just how broken she is in so many different ways. She thinks that maybe once whatever is left of their family (and gods, even thinking that sends bolts of intense grief and guilt through her) is safe and sound, and once she's gotten what's out here in the real world back to Storybrooke, maybe then, she'll try to get some help from Gold or –

She wonders if Gold is even still alive, actually.

Could his mother have – no, no of course not.

Everyone else, maybe, and that thought makes her nearly double over in panic.

What if her parents are dead? Zelena? Neal? What if -

"Maybe some hot packs will help?" he suggests. "I think I have a few around here somewhere."

"Yeah, maybe. But don't go out of your way to find them. Really, I'm fine."

"What are you thinking about?" he presses.

"What I need to do. What you got me out of that place to do."

He shakes his head, stepping abruptly towards her; it's too sudden of a moment for a woman who has spent the last decade on edge and awaiting attack from every angle, and so she flinches before she can stop herself, shame rushing through her (she has the runaway thought of just how much worse this is going to be for Regina eventually, but knows that she can't focus on that right now). He steps back slightly, noticing her reaction. One hand out towards her in some sort of conciliatory gesture, his voice soft, he says, "I didn't get you out of there for any reason other than that you're my mother and I love you. Yes, I want us to save Mom – _Regina_ – but that doesn't change who you are to me. If I had known…I need you to know that, okay? I need you to know that you're not just some kind of weapon to me. You're my mom, too."

"I know," she says swallowing hard. "Just…just be patient with me. I got pretty used to no one caring about me. It's going to take me some time to realize that…you're really here."

"I am. Lucy is. She already adores you. And neither one of us are ever letting you go again."

Emma lets out a breath. "Okay. So, about this Pajama Day –"

"I'll make us all some breakfast, and then we can watch a movie –"

"And then I should make my way over to Elizabeth. Because I really _do_ understand her."

Henry rolls that thought over his mind, then asks, "Will you help me understand?"

"If I can," she tells him, grateful for the fact that there are some things he'll never understand.

"You used to do this kind of thing, didn't you? Before you came to Storybrooke."

"Yeah," she acknowledges. "Not often, but every now and again, I'd get paid to extract someone – almost always a woman – out of a bad situation. And Henry, it never goes well."

"Never?"

She shakes her head grimly, a voice in the back of her head warning her against such honesty.

But he needs to know that this won't be easy.

Needs to know that they're probably going to have to break Elizabeth to save Regina.

What he doesn't need to know – at least not yet – is how that will likely break Regina as well.

"We'll protect her, right?"

"We'll do whatever we have to do," Emma promises him, and thinks about the parole board and how the line between out here in the world and back in there behind metal bars is so very thin, and making promises like the one which she'd just made Henry seem ill-conceived at best.

But ten years ago, she and Regina had split their family apart thanks to one amazing night.

One night, torn sheets and teeth against her thumb, and some memories don't actually fade.

She should regret it considering what had followed, but right now, all she cares about is home.

"Come make breakfast with me," Henry requests. "I make a really mean Spanish omelet, and even if you're not hungry, doing something with your hands might help you…not think."

She looks back at him, pauses for only a moment as she pushes past her doubts and all the voices which urge caution, then offers her son an honest smile and says, "Anything with you."

* * *

 _ **before.**_

Standing three feet from the town-line, Killian thinks he's fine up until they join hands together.

Oh, he hates the woman standing in front of him, her dark eyes as black as her heart had once been (at least he assumes it's changed colors; it's easier to believe that to be a lie, as well), but he understands that their issues will have to wait until the Black Fairy has been stopped.

He gets it, he really does, so when it's just the two of them standing side-by-side in the middle of the road leading out of Storybrooke, he's able to keep his mouth closed, and his emotions checked. Because behind them is a whole cloud of glittering black dust, and it's getting closer.

But then Regina is reaching for Emma's hand, and murmuring something about needing more of a connection, and Emma isn't recognizing what Regina's doing for the game that it is. Emma thinks the best of the woman who had once been the Evil Queen, and he finds himself wondering why it is that Regina gets the benefit of the doubt. Oh yes, they have all done terrible things, but shouldn't she be held more responsible than most considering the curse?

And the many lost years because of it?

Shouldn't Emma loathe her? How is it fair that forgiveness has come so easily to her?

Apparently not, though, because when Regina takes Emma's hand, Emma doesn't pull away in disgust or even so much as look at Regina in surprise. She doesn't even seem to recognize the inappropriateness of the two of them touching, considering what had gone on between them.

Considering the fact that her husband – the man she had cheated on with Regina – is standing two feet away from both of them, being treated to a show of whatever their connection is.

No, Emma doesn't seem at all bothered by her touch. Instead, Emma grins at her, acting like some kind of teenager who'd just ingested a wonder drug. Her fingers clutch tighter, and then there they are, the two of them standing in the middle of the road, glowing bright red and gold.

It's too much; Killian reacts impulsively, his hooked hand jumping forward and grabbing at Regina's cuff. With something of a furious growl, he yanks Regina forcibly away from Emma, the point of his hook tearing into the soft flesh of Regina's wrist just before he practically flings her to the wet asphalt of the road beneath them. Startled by the sudden violence, Regina yelps in surprise, her eyes still swirling red-gold from all of the raw energy pulsating through her.

"Hook!" Emma cries out, "No!"

Somewhere deep in the back of his heartbroken mind, Killian knows that this is the wrong choice to be making; the dust behind them is practically acrid smoke, and he's pretty sure that they're all breathing it by now. He's fairly certain that even if they win this battle and stop the approach of evil, they're going to be dealing with multiple aftermaths for weeks to come.

He knows, but he can't stop, and then he's above Regina, and grabbing the collar of her jacket, and yanking her forward so that they're just inches away from spray-painted the town line.

"Ever wondered what your insides will look like on the outside of your body, Majesty?"

"Let me go or I will burn you alive," Regina demands, the color in her eyes changing to purple.

"No, you don't get to win," he growls at her. "You get to pay for what you took from me."

"I didn't take anything you hadn't already lost, you utter worthless fool," Regina hisses at him.

"Killian, we don't have time for this," Emma protests, grabbing at his shoulder, and trying to yank him away from Regina before he does something – or Regina does. "Please? _Please_."

"You keep saying that, Swan. Like that word is supposed to make everything better. Make me understand. But I don't understand. You said you loved me, and yet you still chose her."

"I didn't –"

"You did. You can frame it any bloody way you want to, but you chose her over me." He shakes his head. "What's worse? You're not promising me that you'll find a way to make this better."

"I can't," Emma tells him, unable to deny the reality that this isn't something which any of them will be able to just move past; what had happened with Regina wasn't just an accidental thing.

"No, but you can beg me to let go of your _lover_. Well what about _me_?"

"Oh, enough of you childish pathetic whining." Regina snaps, and then she's throwing her hands up, and he's being flung over the town-line. With a loud thud and thump, Hook crumples into a pained ball as he strikes the ground hard, his head down, blood dripping down onto the gravel from his likely broken nose.

"No!" Emma cries out, her hands up, tears on her face as she looks from husband to one-time lover and sees nothing but hatred simmering between them. "We have to work together."

"You think I'm just going to stand here, and allow him to act like I'm some kind of whore?"

"No –" Emma starts, sounding so very helpless, and feeling it as well.

"I told you he shouldn't be here," Regina retorts. She holds up her own hands, showing off her bloody wrist; it's not a mild wound there, instead a deep gauge showing, the flesh torn away. "I told you but you never listen. You didn't listen when I told you not to open the box and –"

"I know," Emma cuts in. "You keep reminding me, and you know what, Regina? You're right. I know that this is all my fault." Stepping across the line, she holds her hand out to Killian.

Who just looks back at her, his dark eyes wounded.

"I want nothing to do with you," he snarls. "You chose your happiness over mine."

"And you chose yours over mine," Emma replies, shoulders slumping, her back to both of them.

"Emma," Regina says suddenly.

"Regina, please, I can't –"

"Swan, I need you," Regina says urgently.

"Of course, she does," Killian growls, rubbing at his bearded face and smearing blood from his nose down across his cheek. "So go to her, because we know that you'll always choose her."

"I –"

"As much as I would like to tell your dear worthless husband where he can shove his irrelevant opinion of me," Regina cuts in sharply. "Now is, perhaps, not the time for it." She looks behind her, then, her eyes on the black cloud as it continues to billow outwards, coming for them but also for the town. "We need to do this, Emma. We have to force the dust to follow us across the line. If we don't do it now…" she swallows hard. "Time is going to run out for all of us."

* * *

 _ **then.**_

Five hours into yet another twelve-hour shift, and Elizabeth is already fed up with almost everyone and everything. Thus far, this miserable day has been a nonstop a rush of customers and problems. None of that is especially new for her, but for some reason, Elizabeth finds that she has even less tolerance for this almost absurdly dreary Maine afternoon than usual.

Perhaps it's the blistering migraine she's been battling all day long (a leftover rather sadistic gift that the doctors believe is from the accident she doesn't even remember,) or perhaps it's how temperamental Trev had been that morning before she'd headed off for work (he'd apologized for the effortlessly cruel words he'd said, but she can barely recall them, anymore, anyway), but whatever it is, she has very little humor for things such as "This coffee is too cold or too bitter".

It had taken everything she had not to snap at the jerk who had told her that she wouldn't be getting a tip because his breakfast had taken six and a half minutes to get to him instead of five or whatever other bullshit arbitrary timeline he'd put in place for her. She had just smiled blandly at him, refilled his coffee, and walked away from him, refusing to indulge in the thought which had skittered across her mind about somehow lighting him on fire (she has a strange thing for fire, she'd realized a time ago, and there are scars on her fingertips to prove it).

That was fifteen minutes ago; now, she's at lunch, and though she has nowhere but here to go or be, Elizabeth finds herself standing outside of the diner, her oversized jacket huddled around her small frame, rain dripping down off the edges of her black umbrella as she digs through her pockets for the pack of cigarettes which she always keeps hidden in this particular windbreaker.

She digs, and digs, and then she scowls because they're not there, and that both frustrates and frightens her; if they're gone because Trev had found them, then she's in for it when she gets home, and her mind is already whirling with ways to try to calm and placate him and –

"You look like someone in need of a smoke," she hears from her side.

She jumps just a little at the sudden intrusion, her fingers curling and gripping inside of her pocket, her nails cutting into her palm as she tries to regulate her panicked reaction.

She turns then, regarding the newcomer, and says, a tremor to her voice, "Miss Swan, is it?"

Emma smiles wryly at her, "Emma," she counters.

"No offense, but considering your relationship to the young man who refuses to stay out of my life, I'd prefer to keep you…distant," Elizabeth replies icily. She doesn't entirely feel the nerve she's showing, but she thinks that these people are doing strange things to her mind – things such as making her crave the idea of having a child of her own – and so they need to be away.

Not that she thinks any of them plan to listen to her; so far, they haven't.

"Okay," Emma agrees. "But, I still have a cigarette." She extends one out to Elizabeth.

Who sighs, and takes it. Dangerous, Elizabeth thinks to herself, but this woman probably isn't some kind of spy for Trev considering her relationship to Henry, and so it's probably all right.

Just this once, anyway.

She pats her pocket one last time, swallows back the fear she feels at the absence of her own pack, and then takes the cigarette from Emma. It's not one of her usual menthols, but it will do, she thinks, to calm her ragged nerves. Leaning in, she accepts a light from Emma, showing off a deep white scar on the wrist of the hand she's holding the cigarette with.

After pulling back, Elizabeth asks "So what's your real story?"

"My real story?" Emma counters, after blowing out.

"You're not Henry's girlfriend." It's not a question, somehow a strange certainty.

Emma chuckles. "No."

"Sister?"

"No. Just…family of the...unusual kind, I guess you could say."

"Ah. Then, as family to him, you should really urge him to stay away from me. I don't know what his interest is in me, but I'm a married woman, and whatever he thinks will happen –"

"Not that," Emma promises, cringing slightly even as she understands the worry; Elizabeth might not think like Regina, and she might not have Regina's awareness of her sexuality, but she has worked in service long enough to know how some men tend to _appreciate_ women.

"Then he wants to save me from…whatever the hell it is that he thinks I need saving from. Men always think there's something. I told him already, if that's his game, he's in over his head."

"That…sounds kind of dire," Emma observes.

Elizabeth blanches at that, as if realizing she'd admitted too much. "You misunderstand."

"Of course. So, does your husband think that you need saving from cigarettes?"

"Excuse me?"

"You keep checking your pockets like you're expecting something to be there which isn't."

"And what do you know of such things, _Miss Swan_?"

"Amazing," Emma observes.

"What's that?"

"Oh, just how much things stay the same even when they're completely different," she says, winding her hand through her hair. "But in answer to your question, I know too much about being controlled. It's kind of been the story of my life. And I know exactly what it looks like."

"Yes, well, you don't know me. At all." She tosses the cigarette down, and stubs it out. "I have to be getting back to work. To a job that I actually need to keep so I can support my family."

"Okay," Emma nods. "But –" she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a business card. It's one of Henry's with her his name scratched out and hers on it instead; she doesn't have a cell yet so the number is still his. "If tonight is terrible because of what's missing in your pocket, call me."

"Why would I ever do such a thing? I don't know you or your friend. And I don't want to." Her eyes are wide and almost frightened, but Emma thinks she's also intrigued. Curious, even.

That's how the way out starts – a little bit of oxygen to let someone know that they do have options there.

Oh, it's never that easy; shitheads like Trev have spent years convincing women like Elizabeth (Emma finds herself struggling with this surreal reality, her mind sputtering as she forces herself to remember that yes, this woman standing beside her has to be seen as Elizabeth and not Regina) that they have no value outside of the person who has designated them their keeper.

"Fair," Emma acknowledges. "But sometimes, people come into your life for a reason."

"To complicate and confuse me?"

Emma smiles grimly, humorlessly, "To give you hope when you need it most."

* * *

 _ **before.**_

Regina is still staring at her, wide-eyed and expectant, fearful and near panicked.

It's terrifying to see Regina like this; aware that they're all about to fail everyone.

"Emma," she says again. "We have to do this now."

"Okay," Emma breathes, stepping away from Killian, her back suddenly to just him.

Even as his eyes stay on her and on the woman whom he blames for all of this.

Refusing to shrink from his glare – from the pure hatred she sees in his expression - Regina holds out her hand to Emma again. Reluctantly, as if knowing that even this simple touch between the two of them somehow damn them all, Emma takes her hand in return.

As the magic begins to surge back and forth, there's no excitement on their faces now, just exhaustion and the weariness of a battle they're fighting because they have no choice but to.

Blood from the wound which Hook had scored into her wrist runs down her arm, and then onto Emma's as their fingers clutch.

And as magic flows forward again, red and gold mixing and merging.

They both grab at the letters from Henry as the magic surges, growing more corrosive with each second that passes, with each moment where the dust comes closer.

The colors continue to swirl together, suddenly changing and darkening, going nearly black.

"Regina?" Emma asks, her own panic now echoing Regina's. "What's happening?"

"Not what it's supposed to be."

"What the devil?" Killian exclaims as he stands up, his eyes wide with alarm. "Swan –"

That's when she feels it.

The blistering heat rushing through her, her vision blurring as sweat pours down her face.

She looks at Regina, her eyes catching on the wound on her wrist, the blood there boiling instead of dripping. "Why can't we control it anymore?"

"Because we're not in-sync," Regina realizes. She looks over at Hook, then wide-eyed and alarmed. "We did this." Then, to Emma, "Oh, God, Emma, we did this."

"How?" Killian demands. "How did we do this?"

"We're at war," Emma says numbly. And then looks from Killian to Regina as the fairy dust pours over them.

"What does that mean?" Killian asks again, backing up like he's trying to escape the dust.

"It means," Regina tells them, no fury or even judgement in her raspy broken voice, just resignation as she stares back at Emma and Killian. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Regina, no," Emma pleads.

"How do we stop this?" Killian asks, his eyes desperate for the kind of forgiveness Regina knows is beyond them now.

"We can't. We defeated ourselves." She gestures to the dust as it continues to circle them. "All of this...it means we lost."

The dust suddenly swirls together, a humanoid body forming as it comes together.

When it's done, she's standing there, the Black Fairy in all of her glory.

Eyes crazed, her smile sadistic and cruel.

Laughing as she looks at the three of them and purrs out, "Oh no, my dears, it means…I _won_."

 _ **:D**_


	8. Seven

**A/N:** Thanks as always - seems I am in a two week upgrade cycle.

 **Warnings** : Language, violence, psychological domestic abuse and Hook and Trev.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

"You're afraid," she coos, her eyes dancing maliciously as she regards the trio opposite her. Though they've spent the last hours at war, they seem almost in sync now, their body language, tense and agitated; she can practically smell the fear coming off of them.

"You know we'll fight," Emma tells her, hands clenched at her sides as if she's stopping herself from throwing a punch. Because while that might feel wonderful right about now, it would also be absolutely useless against the dark magic the Black Fairy is throwing.

Twisted magic well beyond even the Evil Queen's previous means.

"Perhaps…or perhaps not," Fiona shrugs, the pitch of her voice high and excited as she looks beyond them to the darkness of Storybrooke. "You see, while it is amusing to watch the ants scurry around attempting to find a way to rebel, I prefer a cleaner end. An end that assures me victory and…retribution." She steps close to Regina, putting a hand out to touch her face; Regina pulls back violently, teeth grit to stop herself from saying anything and giving Fiona even that much pleasure. Just the resistance is enough, though, and Fiona laughs. "So very angry. At yourself, I presume? This is all your fault, Regina. The desires of your heart have destroyed you again, Regina. Such a shame to see how easily you have been undone by your wasteful emotions time and time again." She looks over at Hook and Emma. "You had to have it all – even what wasn't yours to have – and now, I think it's best that you have… _nothing_."

"What are you going to do to us?" Hook demands. He glances to his side, taking in the drawn and worried faces of the two women standing next to him. Regina looks downright pale, her dark eyes sunken backwards as the stark reality of their grim situation settles on her. Were times even remotely better, he might allow himself to feel just the smallest bit of pleasure at her dismay before reminding himself that he's supposed to be a better man; right now, he doesn't know what kind of man he is, anymore, beyond one who has failed as badly as she has.

They've all just failed, and there's no getting around that.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Fiona asks, turning to look at him. "Perhaps it's best not to." She smiles to herself at thought of this. "This whole town of yours, everyone you tried so hard to protect with this last end-run of yours –" she giggles. "Joining the powerful magic of two women who should be able to burn down the world together, but succeeding only in burning down their lives. It's wonderfully poetic, really, and so, too, will be your final punishments."

"Emma," Regina whispers. Her hand drops down, and moves instinctively towards Emma's, as if attempting to take it and perhaps move magic between the two of them again. Perhaps she thinks if they join forces, they can still take out the Black Fairy before she does whatever it is that she's planning on doing to all of them. Maybe that's the plan and the intent, but just as Regina's fingers scratch against the back of Emma's hand, Emma's eyes are darting up, and it's the shock and horror of the last few hours overwhelming her all at once. It's the reality that she'd made a choice and she regrets it and doesn't and everything is crumbling.

It's a touch that she'd previously invited closer, and now finds herself pulling away from.

She feels more than sees the betrayed hurt which streaks through Regina, harsh and poignant.

A reminder of everything that is now falling apart for all of them.

"You can't save each other now," Fiona tells them. "All you can do is watch everything you've ever loved fade away. All you can do is burn." She lifts her hand up, then, dust glittering around her fingers. It swirls as if moved by magnets, leaving a disturbingly captivating shadowy wake behind it. "Before we end this whole…fiasco, before you see your worthless lives disappear –"

"You're just going to kill us?" Hook asks, stepping forward and in front of Regina and Emma, almost a chivalrous movement were it in any way intentional (perhaps it is for Emma, but even now he'd gladly see the Queen dead, and a small voice at the back of his mind reminds him that this is why they're here now – because the long-simmering loathing between he and Regina and the parallel running long simmering emotions between Regina and Emma had never been put to rest). It seems like a dumb question, and perhaps for someone with the amount of blood on his conscience that he has, it should be a dumb question; but after three hundred years of surviving against every odd known to man and god, to die so easily seems absurd.

"Me? No." She lifts her hands. "My hands are clean, and will remain clean of your…fates. Well, so to speak, anyway. But worry not – at least not about that – I'm simply going to return you to the start of things. You believe that you all achieved your happy endings…or beginning or whatever that silly song was? But they were all lies, weren't they? Merely…handsome words set against a broken wail. Well, let me show you what life looks like when the lies are all gone."

She turns her hands over, palms up and suddenly dust is erupting from her as if she's returning to the state which she had been in just a few minutes earlier; more magic than person now, the darkness screeches out in every direction, swallowing Storybrooke up whole, it seems.

"Everything you have ever known," Fiona tells them as the dust continues to swirl, the churn of it loud, like a screaming tornado as it tears a house apart. "You will never see again. Perhaps that's a mercy of sorts, but in your last seconds, know that their torment in your absence will be absolute. They will never rest, never have peace and never know even a moment of hope."

"Please," Emma says softly. It occurs to her that over the last day, she has said this word repeatedly to both Hook and Regina, and it hasn't gotten them anywhere better than here.

And yet this desperate pointless plea for something more than the oblivion which they're now all facing – because of her, because of her and Regina, because of her and Killian and because of both of them and Killian – is all she has left to fight off what seems like an inevitable fate.

It is inevitable, she knows, and her eyes are filling with tears.

"You don't have to do this," Killian adds, swallowing hard, thinking about his past and the many times victims had looked back at him and said those same words to him. Times when he had allowed the rage inside of him – the pure anger at all that he was and would ever be – consume him. He'd cut those people down, hurting them more for their belief that he could be better.

And now here he is, hoping.

For all the bloody good it will do any of them now.

"They don't deserve this," Regina finishes for them. She shakes her head, thinking about all the times before Storybrooke when she would have gladly seen everyone else suffer so that she might somehow exist another day. And then these people became part of her in a way which she never saw coming; oh, Snow had always been something of a sister to her, but she had never imagined that through trial and forgiveness, she might find her way to true family.

A family that she'd torn asunder through her own selfish desires.

"Oh, but they do, Regina. All of them. For my sins, and for yours." She steps forward again, and this time, she doesn't allow Regina to yank her face away, grimy slim fingers gripping her jaw. "You were the Queen once, and you were mighty, but first, you were a broken scared little lamb. You have always believed – hoped – that you deserved more than that, but you don't."

"Let her go," Emma demands, jerking forward. She doesn't get more than a step before Killian is reaching out and snaring the cuff of her jacket with his hook, and with one hard yank, he pulls Emma back towards him ignoring her shout of anger as he does so. "What are you doing?"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Emma," he tells her. "We're all about to die. Or at the very least be destroyed by another curse. Because we failed. All of us. You, me, the Queen. We have failed at everything we've ever tried. If these are our last moments as ourselves, I want to spend them with you in my arms. Like we're meant to be." Killian offers her a slightly hopeful watery smile.

But Regina's blood is still dripping down from the wound in her wrist which he'd torn open just a few minutes ago, and there's darkness all around them, their home disappearing behind them; and while it would be almost nice to fall back into the quiet lie of the last five years and the presumed happy beginning that she had believed she'd carved out; a lie is still a lie and perhaps even the ideal of "meant to be" is something that has condemned them to this.

"I wish," Emma says softly, and then doesn't finish the sentence as much as they both might have wanted her to, because she, more than most, knows just how terrible wishes can be. She turns away from Killian, feeling his hook fall from her cuff as she moves towards Regina.

Regina, who is still fighting.

Her eyes blazing with murderous rage and defiance, blood dripping down her and splashing against the town-line which she's being held over; Regina is still staring back at Fiona as she says, "I'm no sheep, bitch."

One of her hands lifts up, then, and before Fiona can even think to move out of the way, Regina is scraping her nails across the Black Fairy's face, looking almost feral in her ghastly triumph.

Even when she hits the ground seconds later - thrown to it and fully onto the real world side of the line - black dust circling and attacking her, tearing into her skin, she's still sneering defiantly. Even as she screams in pain as the darkness pecks at her.

Emma drops to a knee, one hand on Regina's shoulder, her previous reluctance to touch gone the moment she sees Regina in need; she can see Hook above her, bristling even now, and knows that no matter where any of them go from here – if anywhere – her marriage is over.

Fiona wipes her hands past her cheek, looking down at the red there. "And to think, I was almost going to just lock you away inside a little room again, but no, perhaps just your mind."

"What are you talking about?" Hook asks. "What are –"

"Shh. No more questions." She lifts her fingers to her lips and then blows on them, the dust gathered around the tips of them scattering and then rushing towards the frightened trio.

"Emma," Hook whispers.

"We're going to be okay," she says, and doesn't believe her own words.

Years ago, when the Black Fairy had cursed them on her wedding day, she had believed with her part of her that they would find a way to beat the woman; today, she doesn't believe.

Today, she knows that all she has left is this moment.

Death or destruction is coming – the end of the beginning.

"Emma," Regina says, still staring at the Black Fairy, but covered in cuts and gashes now. Her blood seems too red to Emma, too bright and glaring against the darkness of everything else.

So Emma says again, fingers tightening on Regina's shoulder. "We're going to be okay."

"No, you're really not," Fiona promises and then the darkness is falling across them. She straddles the town line now, one foot in and one foot out, using her ability to conduit and move almost effortlessly between realms to move her dark magic from within Storybrooke to outside of it so that she can use it against Regina, Emma and Hook now. "You who all tried to defy fate and choose your own destiny outside of the roles assigned to you in this story of ours. What a silly notion. For all your attempts at more, in the end, you are only what you have ever been. What you have always been. Trapped, broken, and weak. Nothing more than defeated."

The words crashing down on all of them, Emma drops her hand away from Regina's shoulder, and takes her hand instead, reaching out with her other hand for Killian's, squeezing both of them as she looks at their eyes, seeing her own tears reflected back at her on their faces.

Two former villains who have tried so hard to be better than the worst of themselves.

More than their worst days.

And she, a lost girl who thought she'd found home and the freedom of a life without the walls everyone has always told her would crush her alive if she didn't find a way to remove them.

Turns out she doesn't need walls to be buried alive.

Emma feels Regina and Killian squeezing her hands, the three of them bound together in this terrible fate, each knowing that the darkness surrounding them and their loved ones is because of them. Knowing that their inability to put aside their emotions had damned everyone.

She hears Killian say, "I'm sorry."

Hears Regina murmur, "Henry."

Their eyes meet, and Emma thinks, "None of this is going to be okay."

She stares at the town-line, now in front of her, quickly becoming a different reality.

The last thing Emma feels before the dust finally overtakes them is Hook squeezing her hand one more time. The last thing she sees is the shattering guilt in Regina's eyes. It's mixed with the unrelenting affection that has been a part of their relationship for the last several years, and so when Regina offers her the smallest smile, she finds herself returning it even if it seems absurd to do so in this moment. But then Regina's eyes are dimming and the familiarity is gone.

It's all just _gone_.

Darkness falls.

* * *

 _ **Then.**_

"I feel like maybe I should get you a job application considering how often you're here," Elizabeth notes dryly as she steps out into the blisteringly cold air. The wind and the sideways rain are both nipping hard at her make-up bronzed cheeks, stinging them bright red. Clutching her oversized omnipresent windbreaker close to her too-thin body, she hands Emma cup of just warmed up coffee and quietly adds on, "But then, you're not really here to wait tables."

"No, I tried that awhile back. I was…pretty fucking dreadful at it" Emma admits with a wry chuckle as she extends out a pack of cigarettes. Not for the first (or she assumes last) time, she's struck by the wrongness of smoking with Regina, knowing that when her once-lover returns to herself, she's not likely to be terribly thrilled with all of the nicotine that she's pumped into her body over the last decade. Then again, that's likely to be the very least of Regina's issues, Emma muses darkly, noticing how thin Elizabeth's wrist is as she takes the offered cigarette from Emma. Lighting the cigarette for Elizabeth, Emma says in a deceptively casual tone, "Anyway, I'm not here for a job application or even for coffee. I'm here for you."

"I got that. Which begs the question, Miss Swan, why? I've told you already that I'm not interested in your help. Or Henry's. I want nothing to do with either of you, and yet both of you continue to push your way into my life." She tilts her head to the side. "Why is that exactly?"

"That's a good question," Emma nods. She takes a deep drag from her cigarette before continuing. "But I think maybe it begs an even better question: considering how much you want nothing to do with me – or Henry – why did you come outside when you saw me here?"

Elizabeth opens her mouth to reply, but then almost immediately snaps it shut again, not able to offer an answer that sounds sensible. The truth is, it makes no sense why she has chosen to come outside. Why she isn't avoiding Emma. She is a woman who has managed to make her every day work simply by steering away from obvious conflicts and disruptions – whether with Trev or anyone else – and yet, all of the sudden, for reasons well beyond her understanding, Elizabeth finds herself gravitating towards this strange little family. They've offered her nothing but serious complication and disruption to her normal routine, and those are always recipes for discontent and bad days in her life and marriage. She knows better, and yet here she is.

Standing in the icy cold with this woman and her cigarettes.

Elizabeth sighs, "I don't know," she admits. "But I know better."

"Because your husband wouldn't like…you talking to a strange…woman?"

"My husband is protective over me," Elizabeth tells her. "He wants what's best for me."

"Don't you think that's your decision to make?" Emma counters.

"Of course, it is. I just understand how a marriage works. I understand that it takes work and compromise, and sometimes, you understand that you have to give up a lot to make it work."

"You didn't say to be happy," Emma notes, sipping from the cup. It's typical diner fare, overheated, kind of stale and burnt, but it's still a thousand time better than prison brew.

"I –"

"I was married," Emma cuts in, smiling tightly, trying not to give into the surreal nature of this moment. That she's about to tell a half story about the collapse of her marriage to Hook to a woman who had played a key role in that implosion is…amazing even to her. Still, she adds on softly, "I loved him, and I really thought that he was supposed to be my happily ever after."

"You don't strike me as the type to believe in such things," Elizabeth comments, seeming more than a little bit curious. She hasn't known many women like Emma Swan in her life, and so perhaps this woman intrigues her. In the kind of way that is setting off alarm bells, sure, but all the same, and so instead of turning and walking away from her as she should, she's staying.

And listening.

"It's complicated," Emma tells her, and almost laughs because were this truly Regina, she knows her co-mother would find the same bent humor in how perfectly that word fits them.

But it's not Regina, and Emma reminds herself that she needs to keep Elizabeth in front of her.

Anyway, that's the plan until Elizabeth pushes and says, "Most things are. Tell me your story."

"Why? You want me to go away."

"I do, but you're not going to, any more than your friend or whatever he is to you –"

"Henry?"

"Henry. For whatever twisted reason you have – probably some kind of deluded hero complex - neither one of you are going to butt out of my lives willingly, apparently." She smiles a bit there, the expression almost a grimace and Emma feels her skin crawl as she tries to consider what's beneath the dark expression. Before she can get too far down that path, Elizabeth continues with, "Eventually, you'll be forced out, as almost everyone else stupid enough to come into my life is; I don't have time or space for friends, and you won't be any different in the long run."

"I'm pretty stubborn."

"I don't want your stubbornness. I want you to leave me alone."

"So you keep saying, but here's the thing: since that first night, I haven't stepped one foot into your work. Which means you have to come to me," Emma reminds her. "You came to me."

"I needed a cigarette."

"Which you're not supposed to have, right?"

Elizabeth looks away from her. "You don't understand."

"I probably do. You were right before: I never used to believe in whole happily ever after thing. I wasn't into it for a long time, and then I was." Emma shrugs. "I lived by myself and for myself for most of my life, and then I had a lot of people around me. I loved them and they loved me."

"You screwed it up?"

"I think I started falling for someone I wasn't supposed to."

"While you were married?"

"Only ever been your husband for you?" Emma asks her.

"Of course. I made a promise."

"You made a promise to be unhappy?"

"I'm not unhappy."

"Your husband tells you what you can and can't do," Emma remind her, her voice intentionally gentle because she understands all too well how harsh the truth can be. "While you're working twelve hour shifts and looking like all you want to do is curl up under a nice soft blanket."

"Why are you so obsessed with him?"

"I'm not," Emma replies. "I could give two shits about another abusive prick."

"You don't know my husband," Elizabeth snaps back, retreating from Emma. "Or me."

"Not yet," Emma allows. "But I think it was my story time, anyway." She adds an impish smile to her words, knowing that her strange response will likely upset Elizabeth's righteous – and from Emma's perspective, well-trained into her – indignation at Trev's caretaking being challenged.

"I –" Elizabeth trails off, stopping her retreat. "You…cheated on your husband?"

"Yes," Emma confesses. "I did. And I have spent the last decade kicking my own ass for it."

"Then you admit you made a mistake?"

"Probably." Emma grim determination for the truth overtaking her. "No, definitely. But not where you might think. I mean, cheating sucks, and it was a mistake as well. I won't defend doing that because…it's indefensible to hurt someone like that. I don't get to just pretend that what I was feeling was enough to justify what I did, because…just no. But I never should have been there in the first place. I let myself believe that normal and quiet was the same as happy."

"You don't know how much I've had to endure or how much normal and quiet is everything."

Emma has to look away at that, choosing a scuff on her boot to focus on so as to stop herself from telling Elizabeth just how much she really does know about her. The problem is, Elizabeth is right; Emma knows what Regina has been through, but this woman standing before her?

She looks like Regina, and sometimes she even sounds like her, but she isn't her.

From the smell of her (much more drugstore soap and hard water and less expensive lotions and carefully paired perfumes) all the way down to the lack of any fire in her dark eyes.

Emma thinks that she's never missed Regina more than she does in this very moment.

"No," Emma acknowledges. "Maybe I don't, but I do have a good idea what trapped feels like. I know what it feels like when you see the walls, and you know that they're walls; and I know what it's like when you don't see them because you've convinced yourself that all the bits and pieces of yourself that you gave away for that quiet and normal are just the price that you have to pay. But that's too high a price. That's always too high, and you deserve better than that."

"What do you know about what I deserve?" Elizabeth challenges. "What I have is a man who loves me in spite of all of my imperfections. He wants me in spite of all of my weaknesses. So no, he may not be perfect, either, and I might not be what you would consider to be happy, but –"

"He's not just 'not perfect'," Emma contests. "I know guys like him. My job used to be hunting them. They're all the same. The weaknesses you think he accepts you in spite of? He accepts you because of them. Because your weaknesses make him stronger. That's how this works. And you know what? I don't think I'm telling you anything you don't already know. You already know that he treats you like his favorite possession." Emma gestures towards the cigarette. "And he really doesn't like it when his favorite possession dirties herself up, does he?"

Elizabeth throws the cigarette down. "I shouldn't be even having this conversation with you. I don't know what your game is, but…I'm not playing it, anymore."

"No game," Emma assures her. "And I'll be back out here tomorrow. And the day after."

"I'll call the cops." She points to a faded sign hanging on the door that reads "No Loitering".

"No, you won't. Because deep down – hell, maybe not even all that deep – you know that I'm right about every single word that I've said to you. You _do_ deserve better."

"I don't, and the sooner you realize that, Miss Swan, the sooner we'll both be better off," Elizabeth states, and then she's walking away, the door to the diner slamming shut behind her.

Emma watches her go, takes another drag from her cigarette, puts it out, and then starts back to Henry and Lucy; a small port of hope in this ocean of despair.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

His name is Brendan Jones. He has the vague sense that his name is some kind of insult, but that hardly makes sense. He's an orphan, and names are just names. Anyway, as it is, he rarely feels at peace within his own skin, so this extra bit of discomfort is fairly meaningless to him.

As far as he knows, he's thirty-three years old, and he and his estranged wife are new to town, having just come into town a week earlier (that seems a life time ago, and he thinks about it no more). They're working on their marriage, but he's kind of over her, and her batshittery.

She's beautiful for sure, and definitely explosive in bed, but she's more than a little crazy in the head, and he has to control his desire to hurt her terribly when she lifts her hand or voice to him. They're poor as dirt, and he thinks that there has to be better things out there for him. She's insanely jealous and mercurial, though, and he knows that she'll never let him go.

Which means that eventually, it'll come down to him finding a way to get rid of her.

One way or another, he thinks as he tilts a beer can (he'd picked up a six pack from the corner store a half mile up, and thinks he's not much a fan of this one) back to his lips and drains it.

But that's for later.

Today has been spent looking for a job so that they can afford the shitty little apartment they rented; there's very little that he can do well thanks to having only one hand (boating accident years ago; he doesn't recall much about it but he supposes that's the nature of trauma). His efforts have mostly been in vain, but if he's somewhat honest, he hasn't really pushed hard.

Oh, the wife will scream at him when he gets home, but when doesn't she?

He tosses the can towards a garbage can, missing it completely; someone nearby yells at him to pick it up, but he ignores them, continuing his slow plod towards the apartment. It's when he's about a hundred feet from the front step of the dirty little Bangor building that he stops, realizing that he doesn't want to go home – he doesn't want to be anywhere near any of this.

Her.

God, he hates her.

They'd gotten married because she'd been pregnant, and he had convinced himself that at least one time in his life, he should try honorable. What a fucking joke. She had been pregnant, and then then she hadn't been, and their lives had already been too tangled up to split them apart.

Years later, they still are, or maybe they just don't know how to get away from each other.

He shakes his head, and turns around, heading back up the street to where the bar he'd spotted is. Standing just outside of the bar a few minutes later, he puts down the rest of the six-pack of beer, deciding that he wants something harder than just Rocky Mountain piss-water.

Something that will actually help him figure out how to tolerate her when he has to go home.

It's not even five yet, but Brendan thinks that it's probably going to be a very long night.

* * *

 _ **Then.**_

"It's been three weeks," Henry reminds her, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"I know," Emma replies, methodically finishing up her cereal. She's had to force herself to slow down, to realize that she no longer needs to hurry her way through every meal. Henry tries to help by pretending that he doesn't notice, but sometimes she sees the worry in his eyes.

The fear, she thinks, that maybe he'd chosen the wrong horse.

Not like there'd exactly been any other horse to choose, though.

He always insists otherwise, always promises her that he has faith in her.

But it's been three weeks since the first time she'd shared a cigarette with Elizabeth outside of the diner, and by all appearances, they're no closer to getting Elizabeth to walk away from Trev.

Appearances can be deceiving, though, and emotional extraction takes time.

Every day, she feels like she's making progress.

Every day, she feels like Elizabeth is listening more, hearing her more. Thinking more.

"Emma," Henry starts, a frown on his face.

"You trust me, don't you?" Emma asks, and then winces because it sounds manipulative to her own ears, like she's trying to force Henry not to back away and she's…not. God, she's not.

The idea of losing him again sends fear and anxiety spiking in her, and for a moment, her vision blurs as her heart races and – "Mom," she hears, soft and so close to her ear. She blinks, and he's over her, clutching her shoulder. "Breathe," he tells her. "It's okay. You're not losing me."

"I –"

"I get it," Henry says, and smiles at her, and for a moment he's someone else entirely. He's not the young awkward boy with a nose too big for his face and hair that had never stayed combed. Instead, he's the handsome man who has loved and lost already and has a little girl to show for it. He's the adult who has failed more than he has succeeded and carries around the guilt of it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I told you, I asked my therapist." He smiles when he says this, meaning for it to make her laugh a bit. When it doesn't, he continues with, "I'm a writer, Emma; people watching is kind of what I do. I understand behavior and what makes people do the things they do. Well, most of the time. It's harder sometimes when it's you or Mom because I just want you both to be okay. I have to remember what you've both been through – what you're both still going through."

"I'm not –"

"I saw you reading the newspaper articles on Hook's death last night."

"Oh," Emma says softly.

"Why?" Henry asks, moving to sit beside her. He reaches out, then, and places his hands around Emma's, squeezing them tightly between his. He waits until she lifts her eyes and looks at him, not hiding away from his gaze before he asks "Why do you keep torturing yourself with it?"

"Because all of this is my fault," Emma replies. "If I had just…you don't know what happened, do you? How we all ended up here? You know what I did, but do you know how it went down?"

"I know that the Black Fairy cursed all of you."

"Yeah, because I opened a box that I shouldn't have. Many boxes, I shouldn't have." She smiles uncomfortably, awkwardly, like she's trying to stop from crying. "One with your mom in Boston, and one in Gold's shop. The one with you mom was…it wasn't an actual box. It was…us."

"You slept together," he says simply, choosing not to pretend that he doesn't know.

Emma makes a discomforted face at that. "It's pretty weird hearing you say that."

"She's not here because she's supposed to be in school for once," Henry says wryly, "But I do have a kid of my own now so I'm kind of familiar with how the whole sex thing works. Even with two women." He grins at her again, and this time it works because she lets out a short laugh.

"Yes," she agrees. "And yes, that night after we dropped you off. One thing led to another."

"Do you regret it?"

"That I got to spend that night with Regina? No. I've tried to, but…I don't. The fall-out, though, that I regret. Every day." Emma admits. "Hurting Killian, I regret. He didn't deserve that. Over the last decade, I've had a lot of time to think about things, and…our marriage was over. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with him, and deep down, I knew it. But I never wanted to hurt him. I never wanted to break his heart like I did. And God, Henry, I never wanted to –"

"I know," he says softly. "That's her fault, not yours."

"I still did it. My hands." She looks down at them, then, sadness causing her to bow her head in a way he's seldom if ever seen either one of his mothers do. "The Black Fairy put us in that shitty position – put him and me where we were to punish us, just as she put Regina here. But we're in this position because of me. If I had just…if I hadn't…then maybe we would have all been able to work together and stop her, and then we wouldn't have all lost ourselves."

"What's lost can be found," Henry promises her. "Mostly, anyway. We can't bring Hook back, but we can get home, and we can free the rest of our family from her, and we can make her pay for everything she took from us. You don't want vengeance? Me, neither – I just want home."

Emma nods, then reaches forward and cups his face. "I know you think I'm going too slow with Reg – with Elizabeth. I know you think it's taking too long and we should be further along –"

"I do," he admits. "But, I also know that for as much as I understand people from watching them, I don't understand what it's like to be in the situation she's in. You do. So if you tell me that this pace we need to be taking with her, then I believe you. That will never change, Emma."

"I wish I believed in me," she says. "Sometimes I think…I think I'm failing us all over again."

He thinks about that for a moment, thinks about a thousand reassurances he could offer, vehement and passionate, and knows that none of them will help. "How can I help?" he asks.

"Tell me a story," Emma requests, and then she's smiling slightly, tears in her eyes. "None of my stories are good. At least not the ones I can't stop thinking about. Tell me a good story."

He nods, and then stands up and crosses over to his desk. He places his hand on the typewriter, then, and watches as it starts to move, gold letters and then full color pictures appearing on the page. When he returns, it's with the pages that he holds out to Emma. "You remember the one about how my entire family, led by my two kick-ass moms, stormed Neverland to save me from the villainous Peter Pan. Remember how they moved the moon?" He shows Emma the paper, shows her the image of her and Regina standing together, both of their hands extended.

"Always stronger together," she murmurs.

"Exactly," Henry agrees. "And that's how I know that you're not failing us. Her or me. Because when you leave here in a few hours, you'll go to her and she'll go to you. She doesn't remember you, doesn't know everything that you've been through together, but she's still your partner."

"I'm pretty sure Elizabeth would disagree with that."

"Maybe," he concedes. "But she'll still go to you."

"I hope so," Emma replies, and then puts her head on his shoulder.

"You want to hear the rest of the story?" he asks. "My mothers kicked serious bad guy ass."

"Sounds like a hell of a tale, Kid," Emma comments with a wry smile.

"It is. Good news is, it's also true. My mothers tend to do that, you see. They tend to win."

She looks up at him, their eyes meeting, the force of his faith beyond dispute.

"Okay," Emma agrees, her head back on his shoulder. "Tell me our story."

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

Her name is Elizabeth Castillo.

She'd regained consciousness lying in a hospital bed, though no one quite seems clear how she'd gotten here or how she'd been brought in. She'd simply shown up, dead to the world.

Odd, but it's hard to think too much about what isn't right when nothing is.

She spends the next few days after waking up getting test after test done and remembering fragments of a life that seems unremarkable and not really worth remembering. There's loss and abandonment and just loneliness that feels like familiar clothing to Elizabeth.

Finally, five days after she'd arrived, paperwork is found in the system (weird, the tech says, it's like it just suddenly appeared) that talks about a car accident she'd been in and provides at least some answers about the memory damage she seems to be suffering from (just images and impressions of a lot of emptiness behind her). They release her, and she heads home to a small studio apartment and two dead goldfish. It's a fucking country music song, she thinks grimly.

She has bizarre nightmares the first night home, and it's after waking up from one of them that she ventures out to find something to blot out the madness that she can't seem to get away from. She thinks she's going insane, wondering if she should make a doctor's appointment or admit herself, but instead, she finds herself walking into a bar, asking for hard liquor.

That's where she meets Trev.

He's handsome and bright-eyed, and he flirts with her shamelessly, calling her beautiful.

He tells her that he's trying to change the world, looking for hope around every corner.

It's a good sales pitch, but she tells him she's not interested right now.

She politely says no; he smiles charmingly and tells her it that it's a standing offer.

She thanks him for that and returns to her drinking and her thinking, her desperate attempts to yank several weird thought trains together to form something of a coherent memory.

To her side, there's a dark-haired man with a black glove on, and the bartender is saying that's enough, it's time to call a taxi or his wife or someone – anyone – to take him back home.

The man slams his good hand on the bar, then gets up and storms out, ignoring the demands for payment. A door slams and Elizabeth jumps, her hand rushing over her heart.

Trev comes up beside her, his hand hovering next to her elbow, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replies, but she's unaccountably frightened, and then angry that she is.

"Let me buy you a drink," he offers again. "Your nerves seem like they're shot." He smiles, and holds up his hands. "I promise, no funny business. Perfect gentleman-like behavior, ma'am."

She thinks of the nightmares, and the emptiness of her studio. "Okay," she agrees. "Just one."

He nods, and extends his hand to her. "Trevor Carson, but my friends call me Trev."

She hesitates before replying, seeming almost uncertain (she blames it on exhaustion and yes, her frayed nerves) before she finally takes his hand and replies softly, "Elizabeth…Castillo."

* * *

 _ **Then.**_

"Your girlfriend's outside," Gil says, nudging Elizabeth towards the window. And sure enough, there Emma is, already two cigarettes into her evening. An evening that will be spent standing out in the icy Maine cold going through a whole pack as she waits for Elizabeth to come out.

"Don't be an idiot," Elizabeth replies immediately, because the very last thing she needs is Trev hearing about Emma coming by every evening. He already knows of the existence of Emma, of course, but so far he's seemed unperturbed by her. She supposes there's an upside to Trev's casual disregard of any woman beyond his own, and that is that Emma isn't high on his radar.

Which has kept him largely away except for an occasional drop-by or two. All that is likely to change in a hurry, though, if these idiots start mouthing off about girlfriends and such (which would be absurd, except that Trev has on occasion suggested bringing in other partners to spice up their sex-life; thankfully, she's always been able to talk him away from that by insisting he's the only one she wants touching her). If they do, then he's certain to start dropping by more often, and Elizabeth has a feeling that Emma and Trev aren't likely to be the best of friends.

Which is exactly why she shouldn't be going anywhere near Emma Swan; this strange woman seems to have some kind of grind against Trev – it's clear that she wants Elizabeth to leave him. And it's clear that talking to Emma almost every day is making her have crazy stupid thoughts.

Like maybe she _should_ leave him.

She thinks Trev would kill her if she ever tried.

And wonders if maybe that's exactly why she should.

A thought she would never have allowed herself before a few weeks ago.

"She's not my girlfriend," Elizabeth replies. "She's just –"

"A woman who stands out in the ass-cold every single night to see you."

"Be quiet," Elizabeth retorts. She thinks to say more – to warn him not to say anything – but instead just brushes past him, grabbing the coffee pot and filling up two cups. Holding them close to her, absorbing the heat into bones that never seem to be warm, she steps outside.

"Hi," Emma greets, smiling broadly at her, like she really is happy to see her.

"This needs to be the last night you come by," Elizabeth responds as she hands Emma one of the cups, nodding slightly at Emma's murmured gratitude for the warmth. "People are seeing you around, Emma, and I can't have that. If my boss takes notices, he'll get pissed, and I can't lose this job. Trev's still fighting with disability and…I don't know about your fantasy world where everything is better and great if you just walk away, but this is my real one, okay?"

"You called me 'Emma'," Emma notes instead. Mostly because this isn't the first – or, she imagines, the last time Elizabeth has started a conversation by asking her to leave. At this point, it would be far more dangerous to just disappear than it is to stay and keep talking to her.

Keep looking for ways to help her decide to fight back and choose herself.

"Is that supposed to be meaningful?"

"For weeks now, you've been calling me 'Miss Swan'. When I asked you not to, you said you didn't really want to get to know me. So, does this mean you feel like you know me now?"

"You're impossible. And you're going to get me –" she trails off abruptly, looking troubled.

"Hurt."

"No."

"That's what you were going to say."

Elizabeth shakes her head at that, but doesn't deny it. Instead, she allows silence to fill the air, only the sound of coffee being sipped and smoke being exhaled filling the air for several minutes. Finally, she says, her voice soft and uncertain, "I have dreams, sometimes. These are words she would never dare to say to Trev. "Of a different life. They're just flashes and they make no sense." She smiles slightly to herself, thinking of horses and castles and grandeur well beyond her station. The dreams – what she'd considered nightmares for the longest time thanks to all the violence in them – have always brought with them a sense of foreboding that she has never entirely understood, but at the same time they have always been enticing in that they're anywhere but the squalor and mind-numbing purposeless nothingness of being here.

"Sometimes dreams are meaningful," Emma replies and it occurs to Elizabeth that Emma appears to be hedging at least a little. "Sometimes they're signs to something we need to see and sometimes they they're just crazy shit in our brains brought on by really bad Tai food."

Elizabeth laughs at that, a wonderful sound that makes Emma's entire body visibly loosen, a sight that doesn't go unnoticed. "You're a curious one. I don't know what you want with me –"

"Nothing more than to be a friend."

"So you've said," Elizabeth nods. "But aside from some nonsense about hope – that, to be honest, seems wrong coming from you –" she frowns at that, wondering why exactly it is that such words feel so out of tune coming from Emma, a strange woman whom she barely knows beyond these conversations that they've been having for a few weeks now. "You still haven't told me why it is you want to be my friend. And don't say just to be one – no one is that kind."

Emma shrugs her shoulders, trying to come off as casual but failing, "Maybe I need you."

Elizabeth is about to respond, about to ask Emma how could that possibly be, when her eyes catch on the familiar car pulling into the parking lot. "Fuck," she mutters, her body tensing.

Emma turns. "You have a snitch."

"He worries about me," Elizabeth says, almost automatically.

"Yeah, I'd worry about my favorite possessions, too. I mean, if I had any."

Elizabeth throws her a hard look. "Enjoy your coffee, Miss Swan –"

"Back to that, then," Emma says, with just a hint of a smile.

"I have to be getting back to work. And you really should stay away," Elizabeth finishes, her eyes on Trev as he stands up out of the car and starts walking towards them, his gaze dark.

"You still have my card, don't you?" Emma asks.

"You mean Henry's?"

"I'm there. You can find me at that number. Any time. You need me, and I'll be there for you."

"I don't know you," Elizabeth says. "You have no reason to be helping me. And I can't help you."

"You're not saying you don't need my help."

"I'm saying leave me alone," Elizabeth replies desperately, and then walks sharply away, as if headed back inside. She doesn't get far before Trev is catching her arm and pulling her to him. On instinct – though Emma knows that it's more training than instinct – Elizabeth sinks into his arms, her hand on his face as if to calm him. They talk quietly, and his forehead touches her. It'd almost be sweet if the body language from both husband and wife wasn't so aggressive.

It'd almost be sweet if Emma could manage to forget her last moments with her own husband.

She watches as they both turn towards her, Trev gesturing. Elizabeth puts her hand on his forearm, and starts moving him back towards the diner, but then Trev is jerking away.

And walking right towards her.

"Hi," Emma says brightly, making sure that she's looking right back at Trev.

"You're the bitch who won't leave my wife alone?"

"Not a big fan of that word, have to admit," Emma counters.

"Yeah, well, if the shoe fits."

"Trev," Elizabeth warns. "Stop. This is my workplace."

"Maybe so, baby, but it's time for her to go."

"I'm just out here enjoying a nice smoke," Emma tells him, staring right at him.

"With my wife. Tell me, you think she knows who you really are?"

"You think _you_ know who really I am?" Emma laughs. "Somehow, I don't think so."

"Oh, but I do. See, I have a friend on the PD. We go way back."

"You have friends. Good for you."

Trev's jaw clenches for a moment before relaxing as he continues with, "Be smart all you want, but he told me about your time upstate, that you just got paroled because of that writer who also won't stay the fuck away from my wife. Only the name on the file ain't Swan – it's Nolan.

"Wait, you were in prison?" Elizabeth asks, eyes wide, seeming almost betrayed.

"Oh, she did forget to mention that? Why am I not shocked," Trev chuckles. "Your little friend here has been serving time for killing her husband. Probably what she wants you to do to me."

"It's complicated," Emma tells her, ignoring Trev and looking just at Elizabeth.

"You keep saying that, but…this whole time, you've been lying to me."

"No, I haven't been; I've been honest with you."

"How? You didn't tell me that you were projecting your own problems onto me."

"Sounds like she didn't tell you a lot, Lizzie."

Emma winces at that, but keeps her eyes on Elizabeth. "I wasn't lying; I just want to be a friend to you. And what happened with my husband…has nothing to do with trying to help you."

That's not entirely the truth, but…well, what had happened really _is_ complicated.

And impossible to explain to a woman who doesn't remember who she really is.

"I don't need your help. And I don't want it. Last time: stay away from me, Miss Swan."

"I'm not going anywhere. Not without a restraining order."

"If I get one of those, you'll go back to jail," Elizabeth reminds her.

"Then I guess you have a choice to make," Emma tells her, smiling softly, realizing that she's putting absolute trust and faith in someone who is looking at her like she's now the enemy.

"If I were you," Trev says, "I'd get ready to enjoy a bit more time with cement walls."

Elizabeth looks over at him in shock, somehow even now surprised by the sadistic lengths he'll go. To Emma, she asks, "I told you to stay away from me. Why couldn't you just listen?"

"Because I really do believe that you deserve better than a man who makes you feel like less." She glares back at Trev. "I believe that you deserve your freedom. Because whether you realize it or not, your life has more value than completing his. I just wanted you to see that, too."

"You don't know anything about us," Trev snarls.

"Maybe not, but I know everything about _you_ ," Emma tells him, meeting his eyes.

"Yeah?" Trev challenges, stepping forward. He's stopped only by Elizabeth's hand on his elbow.

"Emma, please," she pleads.

"I'm going," Emma tells her, holding up her hands. "Just remember what I said. Any time."

Turning away, she walks down the street, coiled as if waiting for an attack from behind.

"Leave her alone," Elizabeth says.

"Lizzie."

"Just…leave her. She's nothing but…she's harmless."

"You don't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what I believe, Trev."

"It does if you're thinking of leaving me," he says, voice low and sweet. "You're not, right?"

"I can't have this conversation right now."

"What?"

"Trev, I have to get back to work." She starts back for the door to the diner, meaning to get away from this and this whole evening, meaning to lose herself in the tedium of her job.

But he has other idea; he grabs her arm and pulls her back. "We have to talk about this."

"I'm not…I'm not going anywhere," she assures him, her voice dull. "I have nowhere to go."

"And no reason to go. No one loves you like I do.

"No one," she agrees. "I have to get back."

"Lizzie, you know I'll do anything you want me to do. Give you anything you need."

"I know. I gotta go," she says again, this time more forcefully. Then, her voice softening, almost as if she realizes that she's crossed a line, she says, "I'll see you tonight. We'll talk then, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," he nods. He leans in and kisses her, feeling her acceptance and sighing into it.

She steps away, then, going back into the diner.

He watches, sees her grab her order pad, sees her move to her first table.

His hand slides into his pocket and he pulls out his phone. "Hey, TJ, buddy, remember that Nolan lady we talked about? Yeah, just a heads up: Lizzie and I are going to be filing a restraining order because she won't stop stalking Lizzie. Might want to get your cuffs ready."

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

Her name is Emma Nolan.

She and her husband had moved here about a week ago, but it's been a whirlwind of fights and arguing and feeling utterly helpless, and she's spent almost every day in a rage. Like tonight.

Her dumb bastard husband was due home a few hours ago, but he's most certainly drunk once again; the tracker on his phone tells Emma that Brendan is at a bar just down the street.

Leave it to him to find a place to lie, cheat and steal at during their first few days in Bangor.

She's sick of it. Sick of him not working and sick of looking at him.

But mostly she's sick of him making a fool of her.

Her head is a mess these days, and she thinks maybe she needs to slow down and just try to think because she's kind of feeling like she's the wife out of _Life In The Fast Lane_ – everything is going too quick and off too many ramps, and she's still trying to figure out how one pregnancy that had ended up going bad ended up with her married to a man whom she loathes.

Just as much as he loathes her.

Oh, she could deal with that, she thinks, if not for him making a fool of her.

He's probably got two women wrapped around him right now.

While she's got a stack of bills in front of her.

Emma stands, reaches for her glass of wine and downs it.

He shouldn't be the only one having a good time.

Two more glasses, and then the bottle.

He's leaving the bar, but he's not coming home; his tracker moves down a nearby alley.

He probably has a woman there with him, she thinks.

She yanks open a drawer, and sees a gun in there. For a moment, she's surprised – it looks like a police regulation firearm, and she can't even begin to imagine why she has one of those.

Dizziness crawls over her; she has a flash of what looks like glittering black dust blinding her.

She thinks she sees her husband standing with another woman (they're standing apart – not together, neither lovers nor friends, both of them looking at her), tears on each of their faces.

They _look_ heartbroken – she _feels_ heartbroken.

Emma shakes her head and looks down and into the drawer.

She shouldn't have this gun.

But she does, and so she picks it up.

And thinks that her husband will never make a fool of her again.

 _ **TBC**_


	9. Eight

_**A/N:** Apologies for the long delays. It's been a wild couple of weeks, but hopefully I can get back to the every two week cycle now._

 _ **Warnings:** Strong language, extreme (though, not graphic) domestic violence and emotional abuse, death of a character and dub-con implied sex between Trev/Elizabeth. It's all deeply uncomfortable, but I promise you, everything which happens here (and is happening) has an overall point._

 _Guys, we're down to it, and it's intense, but we're getting close to the end of this part of the story so buckle in and ride with me. I'd love to hear your thoughts._

* * *

 ** _before._**

The world is out of focus for Brennan Jones.

Alcohol, a pounding headache and a kind of simmering rage imake for a toxic cocktail, and every step he takes seems to be pulling him closer to something beyond his understanding. His feet move as if they have a mind of their own, his body heavy and thick as he stumbles into a dirty alley about three blocks from his apartment. It smells like piss and old rainwater, and that's enough to make his stomach revolt. With a lurch, he drops to his knees and starts vomiting up his last several hours of wasted living, everything spilling out.

He hears, "Well, I expected to find you down on your knees; didn't exactly expect this."

Groaning, Brennan stands and turns to face his smirking wife, a snarl setting across his typically handsome features as he regards her. "How did you find me?" he demands, his words slurring.

" _Baby_ , I always know where you are," Emma answers, walking towards him, making sure that he knows that she's not the least bit afraid of him. She steps closer to him, and pats the front of his sweat-soaked shirt, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I see you've been wasting all of our money on liquid courage again." She laughs cruelly, poking at his chest once again. "Oh, who are we kidding? You'd have to drown in the booze to have even a little bit of courage."

"You think you're so much better than me," he retorts.

"Oh, I know that I am." She looks around. "Where is she, Brennan?"

"Who?"

"The cheap whore you brought out here to fuck."

"There's no one here," he defends, motioning around him, seeming almost desperate for a fleeting moment. Perhaps it's the simmering madness he sees in her eyes that makes him so wary of her now, or perhaps it's the reality that what she's accusing him of isn't actually beneath him. After all, there actually _have_ been other women and other dishonors.

At least he thinks so; truth is his memory is fairly hazy these dark maddening days, a sign of just how drinking and forgetting as much as he can has taken over his generally worthless life.

"So, you're in an alley all by yourself." She laughs again. "My, my, Brennan, you really have fallen hard, haven't you, dear husband of mine?" She spits out the words, openly mocking him.

So, he gives it right the fuck back; "I'm with you, aren't I?" he snaps out in return.

"I'm the best thing that ever happened to you," she retorts. "Without me, you'd be nothing but some loser – well, you're that, anyway, but you'd be even more of one, wouldn't you?"

He snorts derisively, the sound muddled and congested. "You really are a crazy bitch."

Her palm strikes against his face, her nails scratching down against his cheek, streaks of blood appearing there; though it's her wedding ring that cuts the hardest, leaving a deep gash.

Something in Brennan's mind snaps, and maybe it's the liquor or maybe it's the intense hatred that he feels for this woman – this feeling that he's utterly trapped in this terrible relationship.

Whatever it is or isn't, one moment he's staring at her, and then the next he's slamming his wife hard against the brick wall, delighting in the heavy thud her body makes as it connects. His joy fades a moment later, though – not because of guilt, but because she's laughing at him.

"Is that the best you can do?" she taunts.

"No," he promises, his good hand circling her throat. "It's not, _sweetheart_."

 _then._

She stays late at work, offering to take on a few extra tables just "to be kind". No one buys it, of course, but they also don't care all that much. Elizabeth Carson is a perfectly nice woman who has never been a problem of her own accord, and her co-workers all feel sorry for what she's most certainly going through at home, but it's really not their problem. Elizabeth always kept everyone at a distance, and so as much as most of them know how she's living with is terrible, they stayed clear of it and forgot about her as soon as every work day has ended.

None of them realize that tonight will be the last time they will see Elizabeth pulling her blue windbreaker tight around her body and nodding a quiet, "Goodnight" to the kitchen staff.

None of them think about her as she turns the corner and climbs into her car, her limbs heavy with dread, and her mind buried in the kind of worry that is both rational and irrational all at once. They turn away and return to their tables, and she starts on her way back to her home.

That word seems strange now, and she doesn't entirely know why.

Oh, but she does – Emma Swan is why.

Or is it Nolan?

It seems absurd to have let Emma in as deep inside her mind as the blonde woman has gotten, especially considering how little Elizabeth actually knows her; but that doesn't change the reality of the situation – ever since she'd met Emma, she's been thinking about little else.

Worse – even more disturbing – she finds herself actually listening to Emma.

Considering her words.

Which is dumb; all of this is dumb, and no good can come out of letting Emma put such stupid thoughts and ideas in her mind. In a few minutes, she'll be at home with her husband, and she'll make him a drink, and they'll settle in the edgy tedium of their perfectly ordinary lives.

Only she knows better.

Because earlier that evening, she'd essentially told him to go away; he's going to be pissed.

She tells herself that this will hardly be the first time, and she certainly knows how to handle Trev.

Only sometimes, she doesn't.

Like the night Henry Mills came into her life, and she ended up with a fist in her face.

Trev had feverishly and even tearfully apologized, promising that it would never happen again, and telling her that she had just scared him, and she had accepted his words as always.

Even then knowing that there would be another time.

Thinking that's just how her life is meant to go.

Her fingers squeeze on the steering wheel, and she hears, "You deserve better," and thinks Emma must live in some kind of fairytale world if she thinks that life turns out for everyone.

It doesn't, and the loud grinding sound of an engine turning off isn't about coming home to a place of safety and calm, but rather a reminder of what she has to deal with before she can put her head down on her pillow and fall into a world where the only thing which can hurt her are the strange images of another world – another more _magical_ reality - she sees.

One where she is stronger, and has infinitely more power, both external and internal.

She sighs and climbs from her car, staring at the front door for far too long, putting words together in her mind, ways to calm Trev and assure him that she's never going to leave him.

The problem is, she realizes with a cold shot of awareness through her veins, she _wants_ to.

* * *

 ** _before._**

He's a textbook gentleman the whole night; he buys her drinks and even insists that she drink water, and he's sweet and kind and seems to be listening to every word she says. He talks about his own past, but doesn't talk over her; instead he waits for her to finish before telling her his own thoughts. Oh, and Trevor Carson has a lot of them. A lot of really wild dreams, too.

The kind of dreams she's long since given up (or at least Elizabeth thinks that she has – she finds herself wondering about the past that she can't seem to quite touch; wondering who she might have wanted to be before a car crash robbed her of most of her memories).

He's passionate and emphatic, talking about how the world they live in – mad, dirty and completely devoid of purpose – just needs those who would dare to lead the way forward.

"And that's you?" Elizabeth challenges, not quite seeing it in this young man. Perhaps it's this weird cynicism that feels deeply baked into her, cold and seething. Sometimes it feels hard to breathe when all she can see are the many things to be afraid of when she looks around.

"That's me," Trev assures her. "I know, it's stupid, and I know you probably think I'm just some jerk trying to sauce you up and get you in bed, but I mean every single word I say." He grins at her, "Including the fact that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life."

"Now, you're trying to get me into bed," she notes, smiling ever so slightly. Not because she particularly wants to go home with this man, but because having someone looking at her like she's not as damaged and off-kilter as she constantly feels is actually somewhat appealing.

Even if she's pretty damned sure that the end result of his physical attraction to her would be him realizing that she's too much of a mess to take even a quick surface level chance on.

"Maybe," Trev admits. "But that doesn't mean anything else I said wasn't true as well."

"Okay," she concedes. "But –"

"You're really not interested. I get it. And I promised to be a perfect gentleman, so that's what I'm going to be. No one will ever say Trev Carson ain't one." He reaches over to a napkin, grabs a pen from behind the counter and scrawls his phone number onto it. He holds it out to her, then, smiling in a charming boyish way. "But, if you ever _are_ interested..."

She takes the napkin from him, "I'll keep you in mind." She steps back away from the bar, feeling the swirl of the alcohol for a moment, her vision blurring. A hand on the counter, and then she's smiling awkwardly, and moving away from Trev, thinking she needs to make her exit.

Before she somehow ruins what, for once, wasn't a terrible night.

* * *

 ** _then._**

Trev stands up when she steps through the front door, stepping towards her. "You're late."

"It got busy," Elizabeth lies, and thinks that she wants a cigarette badly.

"Sure," he nods, his temper barely kept in check. "Or you're avoiding me."

"Why would I do that?" she contests, coming up to him and placing a hand on his cheek.

"That's a good question. With an easy answer: that blonde bitch."

"Trev, baby, she means nothing," Elizabeth assures him, her other hand on his face now.

His head dips and he looks down at her, smiling slightly at her words. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She's just…a diversion. Someone to talk to during my breaks."

"She wants you to leave me."

"You know there's nowhere for me to go."

His brow furrows. "And if there was? Would you go?"

Elizabeth's eyes widen for a moment as she realizes her slip. "No," she says quickly. "No, I mean this is my home. There's nowhere I would go because there's nowhere that I want to go."

"You're lying."

"No –"

He places his hands over hers, and yanks them away from his face, holding them tightly in his. "I always know when you're lying to me, Lizzie, and you're lying now; you're not happy."

Her eyes close for a moment, her mind whirling. Maybe, she thinks, this is an opportunity to be honest with him. Maybe she can tell him the truth, and together they can change for the better.

Maybe Emma Swan is wrong, and she doesn't have to be trapped or unhappy.

Maybe…

She looks at him, "No," she confesses. "I'm not."

He nods his head, turning away from her, his hand going up to his jaw to scratch at it thoughtfully for a moment. He shakes his head, then, "I should have seen this coming."

"This?"

"When I first met you in that bar all those years ago, you were a fucking mess."

"This isn't about that," she insists, thinking for the first time in a long time back to that night, and to what had happened after she'd left the bar. To the sound of a gunshot and the flash of blonde hair as the woman with the gun ran past her, leaving a man dying in the alley.

"This is always about that," he tells her. "Because you've never stopped being that mess."

"No –"

"Yes. Always looking for someone to save you. Me, and now this husband-killer."

"Trev, please, listen to me: I'm not happy. This has nothing to do with Emma. It's about me."

"Yeah? You want me to believe it's not about her, then prove it to me."

She sighs, realizing that he's not going to be able to talk about their issues until she's able to convince him that Emma isn't the most pertinent issue between the two of them. "How?"

"File the restraining order."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Go with me in the morning and file an official harassment complaint. Let's get a restraining order, and get that woman away from you and the fuck out of our marriage."

"She's not in our marriage."

"Course she is. She wants you to leave me."

"She thinks I can do better," Elizabeth says softly, moving away from Trev and pulling her arms in close around her. It's a strange motion, she thinks, one unfamiliar for her (she typically tucks her hands into her pockets, but this feels even more protective than that). "That's all."

"But she doesn't know you like I do. She doesn't understand how you used to be before. She doesn't understand how much I've done for you," he insists. "She doesn't understand that this is better." He nods his head like he's made his point. "That's why she needs to go, Lizzie."

Elizabeth lets out a soft sigh. "I'm not filing the restraining order."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm _not_."

He takes another step towards her. "Lizzie –"

"I'm not sending that woman back to jail just because she tried to be a friend to me."

"She doesn't want just to be a friend to you. She wants _more_."

Elizabeth's eyebrow lifts. "She's not chasing after me, if that's what you think."

"I think she hates men and –"

"This isn't about her," Elizabeth insists again. "It's about us. It's about me."

"You're not happy," he repeats.

"I'm not. But I want to be."

"With me?" he asks, and for a moment, he seems so sad and lost. So hurt and devastated.

She decides to push just a little bit further, to see if more truth will work for them, "I'm not sure if that's possible," she tells him. "Not like we are now. Not how our marriage is now."

"I see," he states and then turns away from her, walking over to the wall, and placing a hand on it, his head low as he takes in her words. "You know," he says. "I have given you everything."

"Trev –"

"I took care of you when you were scared." He slaps the wall hard. "I held you when you cried over not being able to have babies. I still love you in spite of all of your imperfections." He slaps the wall again, this time balling his fist and rapping his knuckles hard against the rough surface.

Her shoulders deflate, and she steps backwards; she's been through this before.

His simmering building anger.

It'd been a mistake to think this time could be any different.

"I never once thought about leaving you," he reminds her.

"No," she agrees.

He snaps around, taking two quick steps towards her, and grabbing her by the shoulders. He shakes her as he speaks, practically shouting "And I will be damned if I'm going to let you throw our marriage away because some stupid cunt thinks she can come in and twist your head."

"Okay," she agrees, the walls suddenly closing in on her as reality crushes against her.

This is never going to get better.

This is her life, and it's best to just accept it and find a way to be happy within it.

And if she can't, well, it's not like she's ever really known what happiness feels like, anyway.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe there really is nothing better than this.

"You're _my_ wife," he reminds her.

"I am," she concurs, her voice dull and tired.

"We need her out of our life, Lizzie. Once she's out, you won't have these thoughts." He pulls her even closer to him, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her shoulders. "Tomorrow, we're going to go down to the police station, and we'll make sure she can never hurt us again."

"I don't want to do that," she protests, her voice thin and broken, like she knows that she's fighting a worthless battle against a man who won't relent until he destroys everything around her that could somehow provide her with an exit from him. That's what this is, she realizes.

The eradication of every option besides him.

"But it's what we're going to do," Trev replies, a tremor to his voice, his emotions darkly turbulent. "That's what we're going to do. You're gonna protect us, just as I always have." He accents his words by leaning in, then, and crushing his lips against hers. If he notices how she recoils from him, he doesn't show it, the kiss aggressive and demanding, his hold containing.

When he finally pulls away, there are tears in her eyes, blood staining her torn lower lip.

"Don't cry," he tells her. "Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to keep you safe.

Elizabeth stares at him for a long moment, and then puts her hands on his face, and leans in to kiss him in return, trying desperately to control the way her stomach rolls. "Everything is going to be okay," she repeats, and then pulls him to her, and then towards their bedroom together.

He sighs in relief, and asks, "You still love me, right?"

"I love you," she replies, almost automatically.

"You're still my girl, right?"

She doesn't answer, just pushes him down onto the bed, eyes glazed over, one purpose left.

Survive any way that she has to.

Broken and torn, and perhaps worth nothing at all, but still alive.

Maybe that means something.

Maybe it doesn't.

She turns the lights off.

* * *

 ** _before._**

He's choking her, and she laughing.

His hand is wrapped around the slim column of her throat – bruises already forming and purpling on the tender pale flesh there – and her eyes are bulging, but she's still laughing.

Still daring him to be a man.

Telling him that he never will be.

He releases her throat, steps back a foot and strikes her with his fist across the face.

She falls immediately to a knee, fingers running across a newly formed bloody cut on her cheek.

And then she laughs again. "That temper of yours, Brennan, you never could control it."

"I never had one before you," he retorts.

"Yeah, well, good news, _lover_ , you won't have it after me, either," she says, and then she's standing up and pulling out her gun and waving it at him. "You remember when you bought this for me? For protection. Because you were worried that I couldn't handle attention from men."

"Emma –"

"Do you remember the night you used it to make sex a little more… _interesting_? Guess it's my turn now. You get shit-faced, fuck every whore who crosses your path, and then bring your filth back into my bed." She presses the gun against his chest, her finger grazing against the trigger, her blue-green eyes dark and mad. "How many bullets do you think it takes to kill a loser?"

"We can talk about this," he says.

"You put your hands on me."

"You put your hands on me earlier," he recalls, eyes on the gun.

"I did," she nods. She smiles coldly. "You like your games, don't you? You like tying me up and seeing how far you can push me. Well, baby, how about we play that game right now. Only I'm going to shoot you instead of just choking you. Tell me about the last woman you slept with."

"It was you," he insists. "You were the last one."

" _Liar_."

"Emma, come on."

"Tell me. Tell me the truth or I start with your balls. Not like I need them, anymore."

"This isn't a game."

"Only because you're not the one in control. When you are, it's always a game for you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not, and don't ruin my high by pretending you are. Now tell me, who was she?"

"She meant nothing. She was just –"

"Better than coming home."

"You hate me as much as I hate you," Brenna insists, eyes still on the gun.

"Oh, honey, I hate you far worse. You were a fairytale I never wanted. But now, it's over." She leans in and presses her mouth to her ear, "Will you cry on your knees for me if I tell you to?"

"Yes," he says, swallowing as he tries to force his brain to clear up enough to come up with a way out of this situation. Maybe later, he can seize back power, but not right now, anyway.

And she damn well knows it. "I want more," Emma tells him. "A lot fucking more."

He thinks he sees her finger starting to depress, and pure panic sets in; his knee jerking out, he lunges for the gun; maybe if he hadn't, she would have continued to taunt him, continued to frighten him and see if she could humiliate him even worse (she'd been aiming for making him piss himself, knowing that he would be mortified by it, a fitting revenge for having struck her), but his sudden movement startles her, and what was merely a twitch becomes a harsh pull.

The gunshot rings across the alley, loud and echoing.

"No," she shouts, in the same moment that he's falling.

A game of hatred gone disastrously wrong, red now splattering the walls.

He strikes the dirty gravel hard, rainwater mixing with blood.

"Brennan," she says, kneeling beside him. "Brennan, _no_."

He blinks slowly, as if trying to register what's happening to him. For a time, they close, and she thinks maybe he's died right there, but then they're opening again, and she think – inexplicably – that they look somehow different. Not color-wise, but recognition wise. , "Emma? Did you -"

Like it's a question, like he doesn't understand. His good hand fumbles for hers, and still too stunned to think straight, she lets him take it, watching as he turns it over and looks at her ring.

"I didn't mean to," she says, and wonders if that's true, and fears that it's not.

"Where are we?" he asks. "Emma, where are we?"

She thinks that her husband is dying, realizing that the pain he's in is probably robbing him of his sanity. And if it is, and if he dies here, she knows that she'll have no defense available.

She'd meant to scare him, meant to remind him that she wouldn't play good wife to his antics.

It'd gone too far, and there's bruises on her face and throats, scratches on his cheek, and a bullet stuck somewhere in the middle of his chest, his breaths growing rapidly more shallow.

She stands up; then, he grips her hand, "Emma, I'm scared," he whispers.

"So am I," she tells him.

"Don't leave me," he pleads, tears mixing with blood.

"I can't stay," she replies, and then she's turning; fleeing into the darkness of the night.

Trying to pretend that she doesn't hear him calling after her, his voice breaking with pain.

And trying with everything within her to pretend that he doesn't seem like he's become an entirely different man – someone disturbingly and strangely familiar – at the moment of death.

* * *

 ** _then._**

It takes everything Emma has not to run.

It takes every ounce of courage and strength within her heart and soul to not steal a car and drive as fast and as far away from this town as she can; the very idea of going back to prison terrifies her to the point that even thinking about it makes her sick.

Violently so.

And her back…God, even thinking about being back in that place makes the already damaged muscles in her back seize up; and for a moment, the injection she received to allow her to stand straight stops working, and she finds herself nearly collapsing beneath the pain.

It's all in her head, though, and she knows it; fear is a terrible thing, and right now she's afraid.

She can't go back there. But she also can't abandon her family.

She won't abandon them.

She straightens herself up, swallows hard, collects herself, and makes her away back to Henry's apartment, stepping inside and flashing him a smile meant to reassure him that all is well.

He says, "Lucy, go brush your teeth."

Lucy lifts an eyebrow. "What?"

He turns towards her and sighs, "I need you to go away so I can have talk to Emma."

"Kid," Emma murmurs. And then shakes her head. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"Emma –"

"Nothing in this world matters more than her, Henry; don't ever send her away."

"You didn't send me away," he reminds her. "I went to school. I wanted to go to school. And what happened wasn't your fault. Wasn't mom's fault, and wasn't Killian's. What happened between all of you…the Black Fairy is still the one who cast this curse. She's responsible."

"You know it's not that simple. We all made choices. We let her win."

"Luce –"

"Go brush my teeth," she repeats.

"Please?"

"Fine. But I'm just going to be on the opposite side of the door. Still listening."

"I know," he admits.

"Good," she says, stopping only to hug Emma tight. "It'll be okay," she tells Emma.

"I believe you," Emma answers, and thinks it's both a lie and not one.

Lucy gazes up at her for a long moment, as if she's clocking Emma, but then with a dramatic sigh, she's stomping away and slamming the door and most certainly leaning against it to listen.

"I think I would have liked to have met her mother," Emma notes.

"I think you would have loved her. She was…she was amazing. I miss her every single day."

"I'm sorry. I…we never wanted any of this pain for you."

"I know, but some of it…what happened to her? That's just life sucking. That's not on…anyone. But what happened to you and mom and the rest of our family, that's something we can fix."

"I hope you're right," Emma replies softly, tears in her eyes.

Henry steps forward and wraps his arms around her, the muscles in his arms reminding her just how much of a man her son has become. She drops her head onto to his shoulder and lets him just hold her. No, it's not what a mother should do, but for a moment, she allows herself this much. Knowing that Regina would kill to do this, to be able to embrace him like this right now.

But she doesn't even know that she has a son.

Doesn't even know that she has the massive family that she does.

"What happened?" Henry asks.

"I think I screwed up," she admits, and then she's stepping back from him, and roughly wiping at her face. She feels a sharp pain radiate through her back, but chooses to ignore it, instead focusing on the worry she sees in his expression. "I think I pushed too far too fast, and she's not ready to leave him. He wants her to file a restraining order, and I think she might do it."

"Which means –"

"I'd go back to jail." And then tears are falling down her cheeks, and Emma hates herself so much for the weakness she's showing Henry when what he needs from her is strength.

"She won't do it," Henry tells her. "She won't. She…Mom…Elizabeth trusts you."

"I don't think she does. I didn't tell her about being in prison. He used that against me." Emma drops her head into her hand. "I tried to do everything like I used to, but I'm not that person."

"Yes, you are," Henry insists. "Your instincts are still good."

"Nothing about me is," she tells him.

"Mom –"

He's about to say more – about to vehemently reassure her – but then the phone is ringing and they're both just staring at it, wondering if it's Emma's lawyer calling to tell them the bad news.

But it's a number he's never seen before – not JB's so maybe it's not that…

Maybe?

Henry picks it up after the third ring, "Hello?" He listens, and then says softly, his voice suddenly intensely wrought with emotion, "Yeah, of course." Turning to Emma, he places his hand over the speaker on the phone and says, "There's nothing bad about you. No matter what you think about yourself, I know you. Your heart is still strong. Nothing – not even a curse or ten years away can change that, Mom." He then extends the phone to her and says, "It's Elizabeth."

* * *

 ** _before._**

The first thing she hears is a booming gunshot, loud and echoing.

And then the woman, her head down, her blonde hair sticky with blood, slams into her shoulder and keeps running, her boots slapping wetly against the dirty rainwater of the alley.

Elizabeth's first thought is that she should have taken a different way back home instead of the fastest one, and now she's covered with blood and she doesn't –

"Oh my God," she whispers, looking into the alley and seeing the body there. Her hand covers her mouth and she silently screams into it as she stares at the red puddle beneath him.

And then she looks down at herself and sees the red all over her.

Likely his blood.

She's covered in his blood.

Logically, she could easily explain this.

Logically, science most certainly could.

But she's covered in his blood, and she thinks she's far more drunk than she'd realized, and everything always crumbles for her no matter how hard she fights to keep it together.

No matter how much she tries to be something more than a terribly damaged woman; one whom everyone looks at like she's broken and adrift, incapable of surviving without someone holding her up.

Problem is, she thinks, they're right.

She finds her phone in her pocket, and finds the napkin, and calls, "I need you," she says.

Something inside of her – deep and buried – claws at her for these words, tearing at her heart brutally. It insists that she can handle this situation on her own, like she has so many others (she hasn't). That she's stronger than she thinks she is. But she's not, and she'll never be.

She's the woman who woke up in a hospital with only stories behind her but few memories. Stories she has no connection to, of a family who she'd never really been part of.

A family who doesn't care if she lives or dies.

This is all she has, and all she'll ever have.

There are footsteps behind her, and then Trev is standing there, hands on her shoulders, arms around her, and that voice is still clawing at her, telling her that she needs to step away from this idea of protection and find a way to protect herself, but then Trev is saying, "It's okay."

Over and over.

Like he can make it okay just by the force of his will and his arms.

She's weak, she knows.

A shadow without any depth.

"Stay here," Trev says, and then steps into the alley. He kneels down next to the man there (Elizabeth thinks what she can see is familiar and wonders if it's the one-handed drunk from the bar; come morning, she'll forget this detail entirely) and then after a moment, stands up and crosses back over to her. "We're going to go," Trev tells her, tucking her back close to him.

"Shouldn't we –"

"He's not going to make it, and you have blood everywhere on you. They'll ask a lot of questions, and…I don't think you need to be answering them. We need to get out of here."

Elizabeth looks back over at the man, noticing then how his chest rises and falls; there's a violent hitch in the middle, and then a slow descent before an even slower rise. Trev is probably right, and this man is well beyond help, but that clawing voice is telling her she has to stay.

And do something.

But there's nothing she can do, and so she allows Trev to lead her away from the alley.

Away from the stench of death.

She allows him to lead her from one nightmare to the next.

* * *

 ** _then._**

So this is what true and absolute terror feels like, Elizabeth Carson thinks as she shakily lights a cigarette. She stares out into the dark cold Bangor, Maine night, awaiting the arrival of yet another savior, and hating herself for needing one, just as she had almost a decade earlier.

It's not like the last time had worked out for her; turning to Trev had led to all of this.

God, this is so fucking stupid.

She should take her clothes off, and crawl back into bed beside her sleeping husband. Even if his touch has come to make her feel like her skin is burning, she should seek the comfort of it.

Because at least it's the kind of dirty she understands well.

It's the prison cell she'd helped to create, and she knows how to turn around within it.

She should close her eyes and remind herself that the idea of happiness is a child's delusion, and that what she has is stability, and it's how she has survived the last decade. If she leaves today, she'll just be back all alone in that apartment, afraid and drifting, buried in emptiness.

But if she stays, she thinks maybe she's going to die.

It's a strange thought, and it comes to her almost unexpectedly as she brings the cigarette to her lips and inhales the smoke. In that moment, she sees herself standing in that alley again, that man on the wet ground dying in a puddle of his own blood as Trev holds her close to him.

The details are as blurry and fuzzed over as the rest of her memory – very little stays for long – but she can still feel his arms, and now they feel claustrophobic, damning in their control of her.

A control that she gave him.

And one she now knows she has to try to break.

Because she thinks that he'll never allow her to break free.

But does she want to, she wonders? Is there anything worth breaking it for? Certainly not herself, right?

It's a strange thought, one she has seldom allowed herself to indulge in because life has always just been life, and she's been very good at just putting one foot in front of the next and getting from day to day. Any time you think beyond that horizon, there is trouble, and she knows this.

So why then?

Is he right, and this _Emma Swan_ has changed her thinking too much?

Yes, probably, but if she's fair, it had started with Henry – the young man who wouldn't stay away. She'd thought he'd wanted her sexually as men tend to do, but he's backed off of her.

Especially after Emma had stepped forward.

Maybe then it's a scam and –

To what end? She has nothing. She can give nothing.

She _is_ nothing.

Why would anyone scam her? Why would –

She hears a slight scuff behind her, light and almost tentative. Turning, her fingers gripped around the cigarette, she's telling herself that Trev wouldn't approach like this and –

"You look like you're trying to talk yourself out of this," Emma says gently, not moving from the spot where she's lightly reclining against the wall behind her, looking like this is all very casual and easy. But there's a coiled tension in her body, a tightness in her jaw and a kind of gritty wary apprehension.

Emma is as anxious about this as she is; perhaps, that's something of a relief.

"Miss Swan?"

"Emma, please?" Emma requests, standing up straight. It's then that Elizabeth sees the gun on Emma's belt. It's a strange thing, really, because coming to her aide isn't illegal, even if it's throwing her right into the lion's den; but carrying a weapon most certainly is for a convicted felon, and for a moment, Elizabeth finds herself caught between multiple conflicting thoughts.

What if Trev is right, and Emma wants to kill her husband as she had apparently killed her own?

What if –

"It's not mine. It's the Kid's – I mean Henry's. And don't worry, okay? I have no intention of using this," Emma tells her. "But getting you to safety is what matters most, and sometimes it's better to have a threat that you can wave around than not to. But if it's all the same to you, I'd like to get the hell out of here now and not let anyone see me with it, because if they do –"

"You'll go back to prison. Why are you taking this risk for me? I'm not worth it," Elizabeth counters, her eyes flickering up from the gun to Emma's face, trying to read her. Not like she's ever been especially good at this, but for some reason, she feels like she can read Emma a bit.

Emma smiles slightly, an almost watery look to her gaze. Too much intensity for their relationship, Elizabeth thinks, but then Emma is saying, "Because you asked me to help you."

"Not in the beginning."

"But tonight," Emma tells her. "And that's enough. Now, can we go? I really would like –"

"To not be seen." She tilts her head. "I could be setting you up. Working with Trev."

Emma nods, almost jerkily, her eyes showing the very real fear of this. "You could be. Are you?"

"No," Elizabeth sighs, her fingers tightening around the cigarette. "I just want to breathe."

"Me, too. Come on." She holds out her arm as if to guide Elizabeth around the corner. There's one last hesitation, one last look back at the home she's had for the last decade, and then she lifts her head up with a strength she has seldom if ever felt, and she follows after Emma.

* * *

 ** _before._**

She watches from a close distance.

Watches as the sirens appear, cops and an ambulance.

Watches as they zip Brennan's body up into a bag, wondering why this somehow hurts.

Thinking this is fear.

And then Emma Nolan runs.

Back to her apartment so she can pack a bag and find somewhere else to run to, but there's blood all over her hands and body, and his face is on the news. Brennan Jones has been a nobody for most of his life, but now he's a somebody in an alley, and her prints are everywhere.

They know.

She throws a lamp across the room, furious that the man she hates will finally defeat her.

Even more furious because he looked at her like he _loved_ her at the very end.

Impossible.

She's just leaving her apartment when she hears the footsteps, and she drops the bag before the door is even busted open. Her hands are up, and then they're down, and steel cuffs are being slapped on her wrists, the metal roughly tearing at the delicate skin there.

They interrogate her for hours, and she holds firm, even though there's still blood all over her hands and beneath her fingernails, and her conviction will likely be the easiest one ever.

But they want to know why, and it's nearly impossible to explain _hate_ quite so fully.

They bring her in a free lawyer, a dark haired woman with a soft British accent.

Who doesn't really stop her from talking about it as much as she probably should, Emma thinks.

She just keeps telling Emma that she's not alone, even though Emma has never felt more alone.

She breaks the morning after Brennan's death.

Her shoulders shaking, Emma whispers, "This wasn't supposed to happen."

The detective snorts derisively as he rises up from the table with her signed confession, and replies, "Yeah, well, lady, it did. And now you get to live with what you did."

* * *

 ** _then._**

He stands when the door open, and they step through, his palms sweaty as he tries to offer her what's meant to be a reassuring smile. It takes everything he has not to surge to her and wrap her in his arms, but she still doesn't know him beyond being the young man who'd shoved his way into her life. It's weird, he thinks, wondering now if this is how Emma once felt, too.

"Hi," Henry greets, his words rushing from him. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Cold?"

"Henry," Emma murmurs, her lip quirking up just a bit in bemused understanding. She puts one of her hands out, palm down, as if to tell him to take a deep breath and calm down.

Not like that's the easiest thing in the world to do.

"Lucy in bed?" she asks, glancing around the apartment. Beside her, Elizabeth stands ramrod straight and disturbingly still, her slim arms wrapping her windbreaker around herself in a way that is eerily reminiscent of a woman she doesn't even recall having once been.

"Yeah," Henry nods. "But she'll probably come out if she hears voices."

"I'm sure," Emma replies, then looks at Elizabeth. "So? Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Cold?" Elizabeth finishes, and tries to offer up something of a soft laugh, but it doesn't quite work. Because she's terrified out of her fucking mind right about now, and this isn't going to go well, and she should just go home before Trev wakes up and realizes that she's gone.

The further she's gotten from him, the more she thinks she should be smart and not rock the boat. Hell, she'd told Emma that three times on the way home, even turned around once.

Each time, Emma only said, "Tell me what you want to do."

Which is what convinced Elizabeth to keep going.

So she answers softly, "Cold. I'm very cold."

And then she's crying; God, she hates herself, but she's crying.

She sees Henry step forward, sees Emma put a hand out to stop him; it's weird, Elizabeth thinks, through the haze of her emotions, but Henry almost looks disappointed to be stopped.

Emma says, "Tell me what you need?"

Elizabeth shakes her head, can't even begin to explain the depths of how much she doesn't know how to answer that question, how much she's never been expected to answer it.

How much everyone has always answered it for her.

"To not be afraid."

"We'll help," Henry promises, and he's holding out a child's blanket to her, full of bright colors and brighter creatures. It's the very youth of this, the signs of so much love around here, which gets Elizabeth to take it from him and wrap it around herself as she sits down onto the couch.

"You're both making a terrible mistake," she tells him. "He won't let me go."

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," Emma promises, her hand settling for a moment on the gun on her hip. "Tonight, you're safe. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what all of our next steps are."

"I presume a shelter for me?"

"We're not abandoning you," Henry tells her. "As long as you –" he swallows hard, and there's that weird kind of sad emotion from him. It occurs to Elizabeth now as she's staring at this boy that it's almost bizarre to have thought he wanted to sleep with her; this is a young man who is seeing someone else in her and trying to save her because of it. Both of these people are.

Which fills her with sadness for reasons she can't quite understand.

Maybe because even now, it's probably not about her?

But still, they're here, and this room is warm, and she really is so cold.

"I don't want to go back," she admits, and knows she'll change her mind within the hour.

For now, though, Elizabeth knows that anywhere but there is where she wants to be.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Emma vehemently assures her. Then, her voice softening, "So how about I make us some coffee, and we throw on a movie?"

"A movie?" Elizabeth blinks.

"A movie," Henry agrees, a broad smile on his lips. And just does stop himself from saying something else. Probably, Emma thinks, something about doing it like they all used to do.

So many years ago in a town Regina had built and Elizabeth doesn't remember.

"Comedy?" Elizabeth asks after a moment, her voice full of hesitance.

Uncertainty about all of this.

About the weird normalcy being offered to her by these two people.

"Elizabeth!" she hears from behind her, and then there's a child rushing her.

Colliding with her, shaking her thin frame in a bone-rattling embrace.

It's too much, and it even hurts, but Elizabeth hugs Lucy tight, kissing the top of her head.

Because whatever fears and conflict she might have over Emma and Henry, she doesn't over this girl who looks at her like she's something wonderful and strong. Something likeable.

Even capable of being loved.

Above her, watching, Henry smiles as he watches, his eyes full of worry and sadness.

Emma places her arm around his waist, hugs him to him and confirms, "Comedy."

Because they could all use a few laughs to wash away all the heartbreak and devastation.

* * *

 ** _before_**

In the end, Emma pleads guilty at the recommendation of her lawyer, who manages to get the charge reduced to second-degree manslaughter. She's sentenced to twenty years, eligible for parole in seven years, which at least gives her the possibility of seeing the light of day again.

Brennan is cremated and stored away, they tell her - in case someone else should ever come to claim his remains.

She doesn't say that no one ever will, that all they'd had was each other, because somehow that just makes this whole terrible story that much worse.

It's three weeks after her conviction when her lawyer comes to see her, to check in on her.

It's been rough and strange for Emma, and she's not at all set up for this life.

Her lawyer promises her that she can make that better. "I know a way to help you adapt."

"What?" Emma asks, because she doesn't know how to fight back against the stronger ones.

And everyone here is stronger.

Her lawyer leans across the table, and whispers in that polished British accent of hers, "What if I told you that you're not who you think you are, and you who you actually are is someone who knows how to handle prison."

"I'd say you drank too much last night," Emma answers. Because she would know if she had ever spent another day in jail before this, and she hasn't. This is a whole new hell for her.

"Oh, dear girl," her lawyer croons, the polished legal language falling away, pure malice and spite suddenly in her tone. "Dear, Emma. Tell me, do you remember your husband's face? When he died? Did he look up at you like he loved you? Like you had betrayed him? Again?"

"I don't know –"

"He remembered who he was at the moment of death. The death you provided him."

"What the fuck –"

Her lawyer reaches forward then, and presses her fingers to Emma's forehead.

Emma gasps loudly as a lifetime of memories floods through her mind.

As she sees her wedding on the rooftop to Killian, an amazing if complicated night spent with Regina in Boston, a fight between her and husband over the truth of it all and then…

…and then the town-line and the fairy dust.

The words, "I'm not happy…"

Everything fading away to sheets of darkness even as fingers had clutched to try to hold on.

And then she sees Killian – Brennan to her, then – falling to the ground, a bullet in his chest.

Dying, calling for her.

Telling her he was afraid.

As she had left him there to die alone.

Emma Swan looks up at her lawyer, eyes wide, her eyes watery and wide.

"No," she murmurs.

"Oh, yes. He loved you so much, and you betrayed him every step of the way. For her."

"Regina –"

Her lawyer lifts, the sound too merry and joyous for this terrible conversation. "Try not to worry too much about her, she's been well punished, too. To a life within her own prison walls. Not quite –" she gestures around – "these, but familiar ones to her. Trapped without her spirit."

"You…why?"

"Because you earned this fate of yours. Because this is all any of you should have _ever_ been."

"This isn't –"

"Fair, yes, I know you don't think so, but well, fairness is such a dull insipid concept. You can slam your fists against every surface here to insist on that, but it's all over now. Be a good girl, Emma; use your brains and your _courage_ and maybe you'll live to see freedom again." She taps Emma's forehead one more time, and Emma sees herself from Killian's eyes. As he'd died.

As he'd watched her run away from him.

One last tap even as Emma pulls away her, and she sees the walls of an apartment, and then Regina, drawn and frail and so very tired, looking at her expression in a mirror, a naked man coming up behind her, his arms circling her and pulling her against him, Regina sagging into him like she's been defeated, and this is the only thing keeping her from falling into nothing.

"But probably not," Fiona laughs as she stands up to leave Emma to this steel nightmare.

The door closes behind her, and Emma screams.

Screams until the guards come for her, and a needle is pressed into her flesh.

Screams for everything that they've all lost.

And the broken and terrible memories she knows she'll never lose again.

Which, she thinks, as she fades to unconsciousness, might be the worst curse of them all.

:D


	10. The Middle - Part 1

**A/N:** So, this chapter - which is officially the middle point of this story (titled the Middle) - got away from me. As such, I split it into two parts instead of having one massive chapter. I'll try to get it to you before next Friday's episode.

This part of the story starts in the THEN but will bring us to the NOW eventually (not in this half). The BEFORE is over (there will be THE IN-BETWEEN meant to fill in many of the missing scenes, but that won't be introduced until we get back to Storybrooke).

 **Warnings:** Please take these very seriously - extreme physical violence of the domestic nature, psychological abuse, allusions to marital rape and dub-con situations. This chapter is dark, intense and terrible, but necessary for us to get where we're going.

 _As always, let me know your thoughts._

* * *

 _ **then.**_

They choose _National Lampoon_ _'_ _s Christmas Vacation_ even though it's nowhere close to Christmas. Elizabeth admits she's never seen it before, and Henry smiles tightly at her, and then disappears into the kitchen for several minutes. When he returns, he's holding a tray with several mugs on it, but it's the bite-marks on his right hand that Emma notices first.

Thankfully, all she does is squeeze his elbow because she gets it; a little over a decade ago, she has a rather vibrant memory of being curled up in front of the couch in Regina's living room, resting against one of Regina's legs as the three of them had watched this movie (and now that she thinks about it, she wonders how on earth they failed to recognize that they had fallen into an almost weirdly-domestic comfortableness in the days before Henry went off to college).

It's one of Regina's favorites because "these people are all fucking idiots".

And by that she had meant, "hilarious fucking idiots".

As it had turned out, one of Regina's best kept secrets is that she has a thing for slapstick.

"I can see you doing something like this, Swan," Regina had pointed out between not at all dainty bites of excessively buttered and salted popcorn after one particularly 'idiotic' scene.

"So can I," Henry had echoed with a cheeky grin, which earned him an elbow in the shin as Emma had yanked him down to sit next to her, both of them leaning back against Regina's legs.

Until Regina had moved down, too.

It'd been a wonderful night for them all.

Two weeks later, they had taken Henry to school, and everything had fallen apart from there.

But this movie, well it's one Henry's watched at least once a month for ten years now, and so hearing Elizabeth say that she's never seen it…he thinks bite-marks on a hand aren't much.

Emma knows, though, and her grip on his elbow is gentle even if her eyes are worried.

About what, he wonders, and then immediately thinks "everything".

"Dad," Lucy says. "Are you going to watch with us or –"

"– be a door, Kid?" Emma adds on.

Henry scowls at them both, and then offers Elizabeth a smile. "I apologize for them."

"Don't," she says, and shifts around anxiously. "It's…nice."

"You in front of the TV isn't," Lucy sighs indignantly from her place curled up next to Elizabeth.

Henry had considered trying to keep Lucy from sitting there, wondering if perhaps it might not be a good night for close contact considering all the things likely going through Elizabeth's mind, given how otherwise jumpy she's been. But before he'd even been able to get the words out, Elizabeth was moving over on the couch, and after the briefest of pauses – likely trying to figure out if this was something she'd be welcome to do, and God that upsets Henry to see this – Elizabeth offered Lucy half of the blanket which had been strewn across her legs.

"Henry, sit," Emma says, squeezing his elbow again.

With a grunt meant to sound indignant, he drops down to the ground in front of Emma.

Which Elizabeth immediately notices, rushing to apologize with, "Oh, this is your couch; I can –"

"I'm fine," he assures her. Then points to the screen and grins, "You're going to love this part."

* * *

Lucy falls asleep halfway through the movie, her head rested gently atop the half of the blanket that is still on Elizabeth's lap. Which is what Elizabeth spends the rest of the movie looking at instead of the actual movie; seems Elizabeth doesn't find it nearly as humorous as Regina had.

"They're not the same," Emma reminds Henry when Elizabeth steps into the bathroom, Emma's voice barely louder than a just audible whisper. She won't risk Elizabeth overhearing something which might alarm or frighten her. Or make her feel like she's unwelcome or unwanted here. "I know it's easy to forget because they have some…nightmares in common, but they don't share the same sense of humor because they haven't survived the same stuff. They're different."

"I know," Henry admits. "I'm just…still trying to wrap my mind around that."

"Kid, trust me, I get it."

He smiles at her in open affection – even now struck by how much he has missed her (missed both of his mothers terribly), before sighing, and asking, "So, what happens next?"

"Isn't that my question?" Elizabeth queries, stepping up from behind them, startling both of them with her silent approach (Emma then remembers something from a very long time ago when she'd been helping out another woman in a situation similar to Elizabeth's; how that woman had told her that walking softly had been the best way to be forgotten, and in her marriage, forgotten was always better than remembered). Thankfully, Elizabeth appears to have just arrived and doesn't seem at all bothered by them or their conversation; at least not any more than she has been the rest of the night. She's shivering a little, clutching her dark windbreaker tightly around her thin frame as she joins them in the kitchen. "So – do we sleep now?"

"If you're tired," Emma tells her. "If you're not, we can throw on another movie."

"I…I'm always tired," Elizabeth admits, and then forces a thin smile. "But I don't want to sleep."

"So, another movie, then?"

"This is your home. Whatever you'd like to do is…fine. I don't want to –"

"You're not imposing," Emma assures her. "And it's technically his home, not mine." She adds a soft smile onto the end of her words, but Henry can see the pain lurking there. Ten years ago, they had all had a home of their own – a place that was theirs. And yes, Emma's life had been about turn upside down as her marriage went down in flames, but she'd still had a home.

Now, she's staying with her grown son as they…try to protect his other mother.

Some days, it's too much madness even for a young man who has spent years hoping for this.

Well, not this, obviously.

But family. His. Together again.

They're not, though.

Not yet.

Not until they can figure out how to get Regina back.

Which feels like an awful thing to be thinking about considering how scared Elizabeth is.

"No one is imposing," Henry tells them both, trying to put some emphasis into his words, yet realizing that he doesn't entirely know how to speak to two women who have been through as much as his mothers have. Emma has been staying with him for weeks now, and of course he's noticed her struggling in almost everything she does, but this seems even more intense, and he finds himself wondering if the weight of finally being this close to saving Regina – even if she's still Elizabeth – is starting to crush her. "Put on another movie, or I can grab Scrabble. Whatever you'd like. But I do need to get this little one back into bed. She has school in a few hours."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth offers.

"For giving my daughter a pillow? Please," Henry chuckles as he bends and lifts Lucy into his arms, bringing her against his chest. "I should be apologizing to you; she's a blanket thief."

"That she is," Elizabeth replies, her smile genuine as she regards the little girl in Henry's arms.

And tries to once again not think about how cruel fate had been in refusing her motherhood.

Though, perhaps, Trev had been right about how ill-suited she was for such a thing, considering all that's gone wrong with her life and with their marriage. Were there a child involved – an actual innocent in need of protection – in the middle of this mess of pathetic weakness and simpering worthlessness, it would be more complicated. Escaping it most certainly would be.

Or maybe she would have left years ago.

Maybe, she would have been able to find the strength to –

"You can fall down some pretty dark rabbit holes if you let yourself," Emma notes, sitting next to her on the couch. Not shoulder-to-shoulder (and Elizabeth has the strangest sense that it's odd that they're _not_ shoulder-to-shoulder). "Trust me," she continues as she extends a heated-up mug which smells heavily of warmed whiskey to her. "I've been down almost all of them."

"I believe you." Elizabeth lifts up the mug and sips from it, and then drops it down, wrapping her palms around the warmth of it. "I guess I just keep thinking that I've made a terrible mistake."

"In leaving your husband?" Off Elizabeth's nod, she asks, "Do you think you have?"

"If I knew the answers to that, it would be easier," Elizabeth admits. "The story of my life."

"Mine, too," Emma states, and then doesn't say more than that. Elizabeth finds that she appreciates that about the blonde woman sitting next to her on Henry's couch (Henry's back in the bedroom with Lucy, presumably getting her tucked back into bed yet again) – that Emma doesn't just offer her a lot of cheap platitudes that might sound good but are otherwise empty.

She doesn't make promises that might help the night pass but can't survive the morning.

"I haven't spent a night away from him since I married him," Elizabeth tells her. She smiles, then, feeling uncertain and afraid, is deeply humiliated that she's so blatantly these things.

"I spent ten years in a prison cell," Emma allows, eyes on the far wall for a long few seconds. Though she tries to keep herself from it – knowing that it's desperately unfair to Elizabeth – she finds herself dreadfully missing Regina as she tries to dig down deep into herself to find a way to help Elizabeth mentally survive the night. Regina – for better or usually for worse – had survived so very much darkness and pain in her life that it often became almost easy (that feels like both the right and the wrong word for such a thought) for everyone to forget just how much life had hurt her. Because she always rebounded with glittering eyes and a defiant sneer.

But this isn't Regina sitting with her, and Elizabeth doesn't know how to rebound.

Not yet, anyway.

That understanding will take time and patience.

Right now, though, all there is for both of them is the whole 'one day at a time' thing.

Or more correctly, one hour at a time, as she tries to help Elizabeth get through this first night.

"For…killing your husband?" Elizabeth prompts, tentative and unsure how her words will be received. For all of the conversations that she's had with Emma over the last few weeks – and for all of the bizarre comfort that they seem to have with one another – she still doesn't really know this savior of hers (the word is bitter on her tongue, acidic in a way she doesn't entirely understand considering how often in her life she has needed to count on others for safety).

"Yeah," Emma confirms, lifting her own mug to her lips. Her eyes flicker over to the gun on the kitchen counter, one Emma had been all too happy to hand back over to Henry once again.

"Was he…did he…" Elizabeth shakes her head and murmurs a quiet deferring apology. She's offered quite a few of them since she'd stepped into this apartment, and without even thinking about it, she knows that before this night is over, she'll likely offer at least a dozen more.

It's what happens when you're used to everything being your fault. Even when you're the one bleeding.

Perhaps especially when you're the one bleeding.

"For what?" Emma asks, her head tilted. It's a slightly disingenuous question, but Elizabeth sees it for the gentle conversation opener that it is; a way to deflect her away from the much darker thoughts that are making their way through her churning mind. "For your natural curiosity?"

"I'm not sure how that natural curiosity has ever worked out for me," Elizabeth replies.

"I feel that. But…in answer to your question, no, my husband didn't…he wasn't like yours." She winces a bit when she says this, tasting the poison of accepting that for the last decade, Regina has been married. Against her will, of course, and Emma assures herself that it's not jealousy she feels (and hates herself a little for even considering the possibility she's jealous because could there be a more inappropriate emotion right now?) but rather deep worry and concern for a woman who had become far more than a best friend. "Not when he was in his right mind, anyway."

Elizabeth nods, sifting through her own thoughts and feelings from just moments before – the ones about how easily apologies tend to come from her no matter the obvious fault of the other person (not just Trev, she realizes, but almost every other person whom she has ever encountered). It's strange, because when it's someone else making an unwarranted apology, everything seems so clear and obvious. "I…might be somewhat new to this whole understanding when you're making excuses for someone hurting you –" she swallows hard at that, a dozen quick emotions rushing across her face. Shame, recognition, pride, fear, anger; all that and more.

"But you think that's what I'm doing," Emma finishes for her. "You're not exactly wrong, but Killian…he wasn't Trev. He had a temper, and he could be a real son of a bitch, but I did love him, and he loved me. We just…we weren't meant to end up together." She's sighs. "It's all just really complicated and maybe eventually, I'll tell you the whole sad pathetic tale, but not tonight, okay? The last thing you need right now is my fucked-up story."

"Can it be all that much worse than my story," Elizabeth murmurs.

"Mine ended with a gunshot in an alley."

Elizabeth turns her head, eyes narrowing for a moment as a memory scratches the back of her mind. "An alley," she repeats. "I know…and you don't have to…when did it happen?"

"About a decade ago. Why?" Emma queries. She takes a sip from her own mug, trying to act like she's not bothered by this conversation, but one of her hands is fisted against her jean clad leg, and there's a strange new tension showing. It's enough to make Elizabeth back off.

"Just…like, I said, curious."

"Okay. So…another movie or Scrabble?"

"Neither?" Elizabeth suggests. And then starts to apologize.

"Hey, no," Emma tells her, and a hand goes out as if to touch Elizabeth. It stops halfway, and then Emma is folding both of her hands back into her lap. "I'm a touchy person," she notes.

"I wouldn't have guessed that for you," Elizabeth tells her. "You come off as…closed off."

"Ten years in a box will do that to you," Emma replies. "Not a lot of people to talk to. I got pretty used to keeping to myself to stay out of trouble. It's how I survived in there. Stay out of everyone else's business and do whatever you can to not make unnecessary enemies."

"And yet you came charging into my life and made one hell of an enemy of Trev."

"I never said I was the smartest person in the world," Emma jokes.

"You're hardly an idiot, Miss Swan."

"Oh, if you only knew, and hey, Emma, okay?"

"Because after you rescue me from my awful marriage, we should be on a first name basis?"

Emma cringes, thinking about the past and their last day in Storybrooke, and a different marriage crumbling. No, that one (the real one, anyhow) hadn't been abusive, but it had been somewhat a lie by the end. Not quite awful like Elizabeth and Trev's marriage, but also not quite good given how genuinely unhappy she had been in it. "Nah, I was thinking more because we're sharing a hot toddy together?" She gestures towards their quickly cooling mugs.

"Fair enough," Elizabeth says. And then she exhales, running her hand through her hair, the length of it jarring to Emma; she's seen Regina with much lengthier than her usual short hair, of course, but not this long, and certainly never this lifeless and dull. "You remember – no, you probably don't – about those weird dreams I've been having? The ones about a different life?"

"I remember," Emma assures her, finishing off the mug and scowling at its emptiness. "That was when you called _me_ a curious one." She grins, then, "See, curiosity isn't always bad."

"You remember that?" Elizabeth asks, her brow furrowing, a stray comment from Trev stealing its way across her mind, a seed of doubt well-planted suddenly poking above ground. "Why?"

"Because you needed me to listen," Emma answers, growing serious. "I know you don't trust me – not entirely, anyway – and that's justified. I'm some weird lady who came into your life all of a sudden, and you can't figure out why I care. I can tell you it's because I saw someone I could help, and that's just who I am, but I don't think that's something that you believe in."

"I just ran away from the only other person in my life who has ever helped me."

"And you think it was the wrong choice?" Emma queries, deciding that this is neither the time nor the place to contest Elizabeth's understanding of what Trev had been offering in her life.

That realization will come to her later – not everything has to be clear tonight.

Elizabeth doesn't answer, but just stares at her, like she's trying to make sense of her, like she's trying to figure out her angle. It goes on for so long that Emma starts to shift anxiously, but before she can move too far, Elizabeth is moving towards her, and there's a hand on her face.

"What are you –"

Elizabeth leans in and kisses her, her lips dry and tasting like the remnants of cheap cherry chapstick. The kiss is passionless, but not chaste – a strange kind of almost obligatory seduction.

Emma thinks she should enjoy being kissed by Regina– the last time had been ten years ago in the hotel room in Boston, and they obviously did a lot more than just kiss – but she doesn't, because this isn't Regina kissing her, and her tired heartbroken mind knows what this is.

It's the kind of test that a woman who trusts no one puts everyone she encounters through.

Expecting them to fail as much as she assumes that she herself will fail.

Emma's been there a time too many.

"No, hey, wait," Emma says, and then she's putting a hand on both of Elizabeth's shoulders, and gently holds her at arm's length. The lock of horror registers on Elizabeth's face immediately, and then there's deep and obvious shame, her cheeks reddening as she pulls back and away, retreating and wrapping her arms around herself, looking both more like Regina than she has before and somehow less like her. "I know he told you that all I want from you is sex, right?"

"He said that you…he…I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay. I get it. But he's wrong. I think…you're beautiful–" she stops herself before saying Regina's name and softly adds, "Elizabeth. You are. But my interest in you is friendship."

"You started to kiss me back," Elizabeth notes.

"I reacted; it's been a long time since anyone kissed me with – well it's been a long time." Her face shades red for a moment before she shoves past it, refusing to be ashamed of surviving however she'd needed to in her life. "But no matter what you think, I wouldn't take advantage of you like that. I wouldn't do that to you," Emma insists. Oh, there had been about half a second or so when old instinct (and isn't it strange that after only night together, the instinct of kissing Regina is still deep within her) had started to kick in, but then she'd tasted the cherry chapstick and felt the trained-in mechanical nature of the kiss, and she had remembered.

Remembered that Elizabeth isn't Regina, and she won't hurt either one of them again.

Elizabeth nods, and starts to stand, seeming even more like Regina in her retreat. "I should –"

"Please, don't," Emma blurts, reaching out and catching her wrist. The touch is electric and strangely familiar, and Elizabeth looks up sharply at her, her eyes narrowing for half a moment.

She says, her words coming out in an exhale, "Emma?"

And Emma wonders if it could be that easy.

Of course not, and the familiarity fades as quickly as it had come, her eyes growing dull.

"Please don't go," Emma tells her, attempting to wallpaper over the awkwardness of the moment. "I know that you don't believe in any of this. In me. And to be honest, there's really no reason why you should. I know most of you wants to go back to him because it's what you know and think you can control. And…and I know that you still think that I must have some kind of agenda because the idea of kindness for kindness sake…unbelievable. But if you knew me, if you knew who I was before I was in that prison, you would know that this is me. And you'd know that there is nothing I won't do to help you survive this. I promise you that."

"But you still can't tell me why you care so much. Not the whole truth," she presses.

"One day, I hope you'll realize why. And it's _not_ just because I want to have sex with you."

Elizabeth is about to answer – perhaps about the question the word 'just' – but there's a thump from behind her, and it's enough to make her wrench away from Emma, stumbling backwards.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Henry exclaims, hands up and out in order to insist that he's no threat to either woman (because even Emma looks spooked). "I was just…making sure Lucy is tucked in, and I was just checking something on my laptop –" he looks at Emma meaningfully. "And I…I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry. I…I think I came in on something I shouldn't have, though, so –"

"I need a cigarette," Elizabeth cuts him off, and then she's fishing through her pockets, her head bowed, tears of humiliation in her eyes and then on her cheeks. She's feeling too much right now, and all of its confusing and frightening; she doesn't know what to make of any of it.

But most especially of Emma Swan. Emma Swan, who says, "I'll go with you."

Elizabeth is about to protest, perhaps about to say that she needs a moment away from the other woman, but then Emma is standing, and before she's even half an inch up, she's crying out, her hand jerking backwards and splaying against her spine, her face a sharp grimace as she tumbles to her knees, her head bowed and her blonde hair curtaining her obvious anguish.

Henry says, "Mo – Emma?"

It's strange (it almost sounds like he was about to call Emma "mom"), but then Elizabeth's attention is on Emma as she's doubled over in pain, her eyes tightly screwed together.

She wants to move forward and try to help, wants to do…something.

She doesn't, though, because she'll just make it worse.

She _always_ makes it worse.

"I've got you," Henry says softly, an arm around Emma as he lifts her back to the couch. He puts her gently down against it, his hand gripping her and Elizabeth finds herself wondering about their relationship again. Clearly not sexual, but not exactly just platonic friendship, either.

She wonders about the madness of her sad pathetic life, and she needs a cigarette even more.

"I'm okay," Emma grits out. "I just need to…I need to breathe."

"You want some aspirin?" Henry queries, looking over towards the kitchen.

"Not yet. It's just a spasm. It'll release. Take her out for a cigarette."

"Emma –"

"He doesn't have to. I can wait," Elizabeth tells her, her fingers twitching with need. She never considered herself a nicotine addict – not like those people she sees who can't go even an hour without one – but as of late, it has become something of an escape for her hands and her mind.

Right now, she desperately need that kind of escape.

"Go," Emma urges. "I need to scream into a pillow, and I'd prefer no one here for that." Her words are raw, and she hates admitting to them, but it's the only way to get them to go.

Go so both of them can have time to collect themselves.

Emma's not sure how much more her nerves or her heart can take tonight. Maybe, if Elizabeth can get her smoke, and Emma can calm the pain in her back, they can all manage some sleep.

Not a lot, most likely, but enough to give them the strength to figure out what comes next.

How to get Elizabeth to safety while she and Henry figure out what the next step is.

Where that next step takes them.

"Okay," Henry reluctantly agrees, standing up from the couch, his hand straying long enough to squeeze Emma's hand. She squeezes back and whispers that she's going to be just fine.

That they all will.

If Elizabeth hears, she doesn't let on, just shifts in the doorway, her whole hand trembling now.

"Go," Emma presses again. "But take that." She points towards the gun. "Just to be safe."

"Sure," he agrees, and doesn't ask why.

Because statistics are still statistics, and no one has to talk about them, because they know that the most dangerous time for Elizabeth is right after breaking away from her abusive husband.

"But later tonight, I want to show you something I saw on the laptop," Henry tells her pointedly, making sure that their eyes connect for at least a moment. "You need to see it."

"If it's still there when I can stand up, I'll go look," she promises. "Take care of her."

"I'm right here," Elizabeth murmurs.

"I know," Emma answers, wincing through the words. "And I'll be here when you get back."

It's a strange thing to say, but somehow, it does exactly what Elizabeth suspects that it was meant to do – it calms her nerves at least a little, and reminds her that she's not alone tonight.

"Okay," Elizabeth agrees, taking a step towards the door. She stops, then, not looking back because of the fierce uncertainty she feels at even making a suggestion to Emma. Trev seldom welcomed her telling him what he should do unless she positioned it as submissive caretaking. "People always want to try heat at first, but you should start with ice. That…might help."

"Thank you," Emma tells her, and she lets out a breath and nods sharply, stepping out into the hallway. Henry exchanges one last worried look with Emma, grabs his gun and follows after.

* * *

Henry notices how her hands have changed from slightly trembling to fiercely shaking, and even though it shouldn't by now, seeing her like this still catches him off-guard. This woman looks and sounds so much like his mother, but Elizabeth is absolutely not Regina, and he keeps having to remind himself of this, and remind himself that she needs his protection now.

"Help," she says softly, suddenly, and it's the echoing of his own thoughts that makes Henry look up sharply. His jerkiness startles her (he scolds himself for this – it's the second time it's happened in the last hour and that's unacceptable considering all that she's going through; he _has_ to better, he tells himself), and he sees the way her shoulders tighten, like she's all of a sudden wary and on-guard, perhaps worried that he's going to be angry at her. He is angry, but not at her. So, he forces a smile, and steps closer to her. She lifts up her hands – the same hands that always felt so strong and safe to him for 18 years– and holds out the cigarette and lighter.

"You need me to –"

"I can't hold it steady enough to light it," she tells him, and then shakes her head, her self-loathing painted across her face. This isn't exactly new to him – he'd seen these same shades of hatred on Regina's face for years, but this is different. This self-loathing is about believing herself to be without value whereas Regina had always seen herself as not having value to anyone else. Elizabeth can't imagine why anyone would care about her while Regina has always believed that no one does. "This can't possibly be the heroic rescue you had in mind when you decided I needed to be saved. I'm sure you were thinking more white horse and less nicotine."

"I think whatever you need is how I want to help," Henry tells her, and then hunches over slightly and flicks the lighter, offering her the flame. It takes several seconds of chasing the tip of the cigarette before it's lit, and then she inhales deeply, a surreal visual for him as he sees the white ashy plumes of smoke rise up in front of his extremely frail and tired looking mother.

No, not his mother he reminds himself over and over again as they stand in the middle of the long dark alley behind his apartment building; it smells better than most alleys (he supposes) but there's still the stench of rainwater and unnoticed life out here. It's dim, and the bricks are faded and soaked with stains, his writer mind dwelling on the stories behind those bricks.

Just as it dwells on his pistol in the back of his jeans.

One day, Henry thinks, maybe this will all make sense for all of them.

Probably not today, and he wonders if it's okay to take an anti-anxiety pill in the middle of all of this. He thinks maybe…but then decides that he doesn't dare dull any of his thinking right now.

Because the image on the laptop had been blinking in and out when he looked at it an hour ago, Storybrooke rapidly appearing and then disappearing and then appearing again.

Like something is changing.

Like everything is.

Like maybe now that Regina – even currently as Elizabeth – is with them, maybe everything is coming back into focus, and the pipe dream of getting back to Storybrooke might not be one.

"So, you and Emma," Elizabeth asks suddenly, looking over at him. "What's your…thing?"

"Hm? Oh. Uh, we go back to when I was a kid," Henry tells her, allowing his mind to fully imagine Storybrooke again as he thinks back to growing up there with his family full of fairytale superheroes and villains and everything in-between. Things hadn't always been great, and sometimes they had been downright awful, but Storybrooke had been still been their home.

He might be a grown man now, but he desperately misses his home.

"She's what? Ten years older than you?"

"Give or take."

"And there's nothing –"

"No," Henry tells her quickly. He laughs, then. "God, no. She's not my type."

"But you were married, right? To Lucy's mother?"

"Yeah." He smiles at her, and thinks that one day – hopefully soon – he'll be having this conversation with Regina. About her once daughter-in-law. "She passed away a few years ago."

"Not something you like to talk about," Elizabeth observes.

"I still miss her. Sometimes too much to talk about her."

"Oh, that must be nice," Elizabeth says, and then her eyes widen. "I mean not that you lost her or that Lucy did. I meant just that she was loved so…I'm sorry, I –"

"It's fine, and you don't have to apologize to me. You really don't. I get it."

"Do you? Why?" She shakes her head. "I don't understand either one of you. You or Emma."

"I know, but I meant what I promised you earlier – we're not abandoning you."

"Be careful what you promise," Elizabeth tells him gravely. "Everyone is a liar eventually."

"I'm –"

There's a loud crash of bottles from somewhere ahead of them, swallowing up his denial, and causing both of them to jerk to the side in surprise. Elizabeth's hand reaches out to grab at his wrist, squeezing tightly, nails digging in and even scratching him ever so slightly. After a few seconds of this, she notices what she is doing, and her face turns bright red as she murmurs yet another apology. "Jumpy," she explains, pulling her hands away and tucking them close again.

"No worries. It's probably just a cat," Henry assures her, but then he has the gun out (she notices that he doesn't look entirely comfortable with the weapon – unlike Emma – and guesses that at some point, someone had talked him into getting it so he could protect his daughter). Frowning, every part of him coiled and anxious, Henry looks around, noticing that even though the alley is dark compared to the rest of the street, where they're standing has at least some dim yellow illuminating the corridor. "Stay here," Henry suggests to her.'

"What?"

"I'm just going to go check it out. Stay here where there's light."

She thinks to protest, thinks to request to go with him, but stops herself.

Because God, hasn't she looked weak and pathetic enough for one night? Does she really need to make it all that much worse by clinging to the big strong man like a damsel in distress?

"Okay," she agrees, barely managing to stop herself from pleading with him to hurry back.

"Hey," Henry tells her, flashing her a brilliant smile that makes her smile - almost as if on instinct - back. Like she knows him and trusts him (she doesn't know him all that well, though, and she thinks she might be going a little mad because he and Emma have somehow wormed their way in) "It's going to be okay. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep. I promise, it'll be okay."

She doesn't reply, just nods dumbly at him, watching as he disappears down the dark alley.

"You know a whole lot about broken promises, don't you, Lizzie," she hears from behind her.

Her eyes close.

It occurs to her that this is the first time tonight she hasn't jumped in response.

Maybe because she's been expecting him to show up all night long.

She turns to face him, taking in his indigo blue jeans and faded gray hoodie, his hair rumpled and uncombed. He looks as though he's just woken up, but she she's seen that look in his eyes before. She thinks that before came here, he'd taken something for his own back pain.

Probably something illegal.

The kind of stuff which tends to amp his aggressive and mean tendencies up to twenty.

Usually during those nights, she'd try to coax him to sleep, and if that hadn't worked, she'd let him have his way with her, because better that than experiencing the full force of his rage.

But they're well past any kind of pacifying measures now.

He steps towards her. "You made me a promise. For better or for worse."

"Trev, please," she says in a frightened exhale of breath. She looks down the alley, catching the back of Henry's jacket as he steps down one of the off-shoots; it's a fairly long alley, but she thinks if she called out for him – maybe even screamed loud enough to get his attention – then he could be back here within a few seconds and –

Trev doesn't give a chance to scream, lurching forward suddenly and slamming her against the wall; she grunts in pain, her already sore body protesting the harsh vibration that ripples through her frame. "I don't understand," he hisses, and she can smell the sour taint of alcohol on his breath. She tries not to think of evenings spent beneath him (or why it is that sometimes when she thinks about him like this, she sees another man above her – an older man whom she's pretty sure she's never met before, his eyes staring down at her like he barely sees her as he moves atop her), her nails in his back as she tried to keep him pleased and not angry.

He has two states when drunk: violently angry or melancholy and needy.

She has always been able to deal with the far more common, if uncomfortable, latter.

She hopes to hell that it's the latter now, even as she knows that it's not.

"You were hurting me," she tells him, her voice soft. "You're hurting me now."

"You're my wife," he reminds her, and then leans in and kisses her possessively, harshly.

She allows it, tears in her eyes, trying to figure out how to survive long enough for –

For what? One man to save her from another?

To what end? There has to be an end, right? A point where this doesn't all keep hurting?

"We're going to go home now," he tells her when he breaks the kiss, his hand reaching up to rest against her throat, a clear threat in the posture and motion. "We're going to go home, and you're going to get on your fucking hands and knees and beg for forgiveness, and then –"

"No, we're not," she replies. " _I'm_ not."

"Excuse me?" he pulls back and stares at her, his red-rimmed eyes blown wide with fury.

"You're drunk, and you're angry, and I'm not…I'm not. I don't want to go with you. I don't…I don't want to be afraid anymore, Trev. I don't want to be hurt. I want…I just want to be free." She swallows when she says this, her body corded with equal parts fear and exhilaration.

Desperately wondering where this sudden bravery had come from.

"You sound like you think you're my prisoner. That Swan bitch put that in your head?"

"She didn't need to. You're here. You didn't even let me have one night to myself."

He reels back, surprised by her words. His head tilts. "Baby, I'm here to take care of you."

"No, you're here because you don't want to let me go."

"Of course not. I love you," he reminds her. "No one ever will ever love you like I do, Lizzie."

"No, they probably won't," she agrees. "But I don't think this is love, either."

"You're just scared, that's all. I get it. She's put so much crazy in your head, and you don't know if you're coming or going or who you are." He reaches out, and almost lovingly brushes hair from her eyes, smiling benevolently. "But I can take care of you. I can make this all better. We just, we just need to go home and spend some time together. Get away from all this madness."

"Trev–"

"I know everything is frightening right now," he says. "But I always make you stronger."

"I feel weaker," she counters.

He smiles at her, "You're beautiful, baby."

Sweet words which have worked before, words meant to touch the part of her which can't imagine how anyone could ever see her as beautiful. But then, Emma had said it as well.

Thing is, she realizes now that she'd believed Emma when she'd said it; she doesn't believe Trev. She shakes her head, looking around for Henry again, but not seeing him. "Trev, please."

"That's a good start," he says with a watery smile, and then leans in to kiss her once more, almost sweetly. Like everything for them is about to return to what it had been before.

But it can't.

Because if she stays with him, he really will kill her one of these days.

She reacts, then, and she can't exactly call it instinct because she's never dared to raise a hand to him before, and she most certainly has never thought to use her knee, but suddenly she is, and it's jamming upwards and into his groin, and he's shrieking and falling away from her.

Were this something she had done before, perhaps she'd know what to do next.

Something like run.

Instead, she freezes, staring in amazed horror, and then he's up on her, and he's hitting her with the back of his hand, the ring on his finger cutting a vicious jagged gash into her cheek.

She falls, a hand over her bloody cheek, her eyes wide in fear. She screams, "Henry!"

"Henry?" he growls out as he grabs her by the lapels of her windbreaker and hauls her up. "So, it's not just that whore you're fucking?" With brutal force, he slams her against the brick wall, her body shuddering. One hand closes around her throat as the other strikes aimlessly at her.

It's the alcohol and the fury, and he's ranting, but the words are nonsensical, hysterical.

He might even be crying, but it's hard to focus on much besides bones breaking.

She feels blood in her mouth, and tastes the iron; she tries to say his name, tries to beg.

Emma's name comes out instead.

She has no idea why, but it wrenches free of her lips, a desperate cry.

That's apparently a step too far; he throws her to the ground, his foot colliding with her ribs.

She hears a shout, hears Henry screaming, "Get the fuck off of my mother!"

Which is strange, she thinks, but then everything is fading to nothing for her.

As it usually does.

* * *

About ten minutes after Henry and Elizabeth leave the apartment together, Emma takes several deep almost shuddering breaths, centers herself, and then shakily forces herself back to her feet, whimpering as the intense pain in her back – far worse than she admitted to – screams at her. She reminds herself that this isn't the first or the last time she felt this kind of pain, and she had to survive in prison with this awful injury. She can handle getting up and crossing a room.

Nerves steeled to handle the pain she feels, she walks gingerly into the kitchen and behind the counter. She quickly digs up a bottle of aspirin hidden in the back behind the Tums, downs eight hundred milligrams of it with water, and then makes her way over to Henry's laptop.

Where Storybrooke is now rapidly blinking in and out.

There for ten seconds, gone again for another.

"Almost," she murmurs.

She reaches out and touches the screen, fingers on the town sign.

Somewhere outside, something crashes; she looks towards the window, eyes narrowing.

She's about to look out when she sees a shimmer from the laptop screen. Looking over, she notices that Storybrooke has disappeared again. She counts to ten, and waits for it to return.

It doesn't come back, and then there's shouting coming from outside as well.

From somewhere down below.

She hears, "Emma!"

She snaps towards the window, her eyes widening in horror as she watches Elizabeth's husband slamming her against the brick wall of the alley, her thin frail frame shuddering on each impact.

She's about to yell when she hears, "Get the fuck away from my mother!"

After that, back injury be damned, Emma Swan just moves.

* * *

Henry slams into Trev's body with every bit of fury he has within him, their bodies colliding in a thunderous crunch. They spin away from Elizabeth's bloodied, unconscious form, rolling away.

And then Henry's hitting.

Punching and punching and letting ten years of loss and heartbreak out on this terrible man.

Trev isn't the only boogeyman in this story, but right now, he's the biggest one in front of him.

Trev is in front of him, and Elizabeth is to his side, and he can see cuts and bruises, and all Henry can think of as he throws another punch is that she's still Regina, and she's been terribly hurt.

Again.

 _He'd_ let her be hurt again.

He'd promised her that it would be okay and…it's not okay.

It's not okay, and all of this is his fault.

He pulls back his arm to swing again, but then Trev catches it, and throws his own punch.

He might be drunk, high or both, but he's bigger than Henry, and has been in a lot more fights and so when he throws Henry off of him, there's an unsettling ease to the motion, and landing hard, Henry thinks he's in trouble. Remembering the gun in the back of his jeans, he reaches for it, his stomach sinking as he realizes that it must have fallen out when he'd rushed Trev.

Henry supposes he should be thankful he hadn't shot himself in the ass with it.

Levity later, he grimly reminds himself, thinking only about getting his unconscious mom to safety. All the while understanding that he's somehow got to get himself to safety first.

"I'm going to break every bone in you," Trev growls, reaching out for him, both hands coming to the side of Henry's face like he's thinking that he might start this off by crushing his skull in.

Henry thinks about his mothers, thinks about his grandparents, and thinks about his wife.

And then he thinks about Lucy, and how she will wake up to–

Trev falls backwards with a howl, and this time its Emma throwing herself into him; it seems impossible considering how she'd barely been able to stand a few moments ago, but Henry doesn't dwell on this, instead he scampers towards Elizabeth. Reaching down, he pulls her into his arms, checks for a pulse, and then, rocking her against him, whispers "It's going to be okay."

So many lies and broken promises, he thinks, tears on his cheeks.

Yesterday, today…but he doesn't know what else to say to make any of this better.

He hears a softly whispered, "Henry," and looks down to see Elizabeth staring up at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, blood trickling down from a wound in her scalp. She lifts her hand up, her fingers softly touching his face and leaving smears of red to mix with the tears. "I don't want to die," she murmurs (the words come out garbled, but he still understands them).

"You won't," he says, "You're going to be okay."

There's another crash ahead, the sound of glass breaking; he looks up and sees Trev throw Emma back, sees her hit the boxes, a loud scream ripping from her lips as her back vibrates.

And then there's a gunshot.

Loud and echoing.

The sound reverberates through his brain, digging in deep and reminding him of something terrible he'd seen during one of his author hazes (as the typewriter clipped away on its own).

He remembers watching Emma shoot Hook almost ten years ago.

In an alley – with the sound of the gunshot echoing off the walls.

He remembers watching Killian Jones die alone, his blue eyes on the dark night above him.

There's a wet thud, and then Trev is falling, blood splattering against the ground.

"Henry," he hears. She repeats herself twice before he turns, seeing her kneeling over Trev.

"Is he –"

"He's alive," she manages, pale and clearly afraid. "I think he'll live." She looks up, then, as if hearing sirens, and yet certainly someone has called the police by now; this neighborhood isn't great but it's hardly the kind to let the sound of an attack and gunshots go by. She moves over to Elizabeth, tenderly checking for a pulse and exhaling. And then she says, "We have to go."

"What? Mom –" he looks down at Elizabeth, noticing that she's passed out again.

"Sirens, Henry. I just shot a man. And maybe eventually they figure it all out, and you'll be okay, but I won't be. I'm on parole, Kid. I'm not allowed to touch a gun. I will go back to prison."

"I won't –"

"We have to go." She shoves the gun into the back of her jeans. "Right now, Henry."

"Okay, just let me –" he starts to bend to pick up Elizabeth, wincing at the pain he feels, signs of the beat-down Trev had been laying on him before Emma put a bullet in him.

"No, Kid, we can't. We have to get Lucy. You have to get her," she says. "We don't have time."

"Time for – wait? You want us to leave her? No. We're not just going to leave Mom," he snaps.

"Of course not, but she's hurt. We don't know how bad. She needs help we can't give her."

"Emma, what the fuck are you saying?" he demands.

"I'm saying there are people coming out, and they're going to see both of us, and then neither one of us is going to be able to help Regina like this. If we try to move her, we're going to harm her more. She needs to see a doctor, and e need to get out of here while we can –"

"He'll hurt her –"

"He's not going to be hurting anyone for a very long time," Emma says quietly, looking over at Trev as he bleeds out; if the ambulance gets here quickly, they might be able to save him.

Or they won't, and she'll have two dead men on her hands.

She thinks she's about to vomit, and wonders how she manages not to.

"We're not just going to leave her," Henry repeats, his voice cracking with desperation.

"I promise you, we're not. We'll go back for her. As soon as we can, we will go back for her. But we have to go." She reaches out and touches his face. "If the cops get here, and we're still here, they'll see a man with a bullet in him and a badly beaten woman and the two of us. Me, a parolee who killed my husband, and you a guy who everyone at her job saw coming around constantly…they will take Lucy from you, and we'll never be able to help Regina. Kid –"

"We have to go," he finishes dully. Then, "Promise me we're not letting her go again."

"On my life," she answers without hesitation. She offers him a smile, but it doesn't quite meet her eyes – not because she doesn't mean it, but because her faith in herself has been badly broken over the years and all she has left are her failures. But this, this is something she can't fail at and won't. She lifts her head and looks at him head-on. "The rescues is not over, Henry."

Henry nods, and then bends down and presses a kiss to Elizabeth's forehead. Had they been in Storybrooke, perhaps there would have been bright lights everywhere, but out here, the magic is dented and broken, twisted around by the lack of hope that seems to exist in the real world.

He's a long way from the boy who had convinced New Yorker's that a fountain could be magical. "Hang on. Emma made me a promise, and I made you one. We'll keep them."

He looks up at Emma and she nods her head, sharply, her eyes blurred with tears.

He sees her opening and closing the hand that isn't still holding his just-fired gun.

"I'll make this right," she promises him, wanting so desperately to change her mind.

Knowing that they have no chance of an escape if they try to carry Elizabeth's broken frame.

Realizing that they don't know how badly she's hurt, and might only end up hurting her more.

She's done more than enough of that, Emma thinks grimly.

"I believe you," Henry tells her.

Down at the end of the alley, two cop cars flashing their lights pull up, greeting neighbors who have come out; the time for dwelling is over – if they don't go now, they won't be able to go.

Reluctantly, he stands up, and then after one shared last look back, Emma's grabbing his arm, and together, they're racing down the alley and up the fire escape back to his apartment.

Both of them understanding that they're on the clock, and if it runs out, everything is lost.

For all of them.

 **:D**


	11. The Middle Part 2

**A/N: As always, apologies for the long delays.**

 **Warnings: Language, domestic violence, allusions to past drug use and marital rape. Also, extremely shoddy medical details. Go with it.**

 _Please let me know your thoughts._

* * *

They enter his apartment through the window (which is probably a vulnerability he should correct, Henry thinks absently, wildly), and he stops abruptly, staring at his laptop screen. "Storybrooke," Henry says almost breathlessly. "It's gone again."

"Yeah, ot keeps coming and going," Emma tells him, which is more or less the truth. There's not a lot of time to go into anything else right now. All they have time for now is run like hell and hope for the best.

And pray they haven't made the wrong decision in leaving Elizabeth behind.

In leaving Regina behind.

"It wasn't doing that before," Henry insists, stepping close the laptop.

"Kid, not now, okay?"

"Right. I need my typewriter."

"Pack quickly," she tells him. "We need to get away before the cops set up a perimeter."

"I know. Lucy –"

"I'll get her. Get your shit. Only necessities." She smiles thinly at him. "Only endgame."

"Endgame?"

"You're a writer, Henry, you know what tonight means. It means there are no do-overs." She blinks rapidly as she says this, trying not to think about how her reemergence in her son's life has altered it so dramatically that this is where they all are. It's not just her, of course – Henry stumbling across Regina had set everything in motion, but now it's a family kind of mess.

The usual kind, then.

"Okay, okay. Wait, Mom, what about your back? Can you –"

"It's fine," she says abruptly, the tightened lines around her eyes betraying the lie of her words. "Get what you need; I'll get Lucy." She quickly leaves and goes to where her granddaughter is sleeping. Soundly, like her whole world hasn't just blown apart on her.

But it has, and nothing will be the same … for any of them.

That's not a new thing for her, but for a child –

She once again tries not to wonder if it would have been better for everyone if Henry hadn't found her and gotten her out of that cell. If perhaps he and Lucy be safer without her in their lives?

Yes, of course they would…

"Emma?" Lucy says sleepily, jolting Emma from her morose thoughts.

"Hey, Kiddo," Emma replies, wincing as she leans in and gently touches Lucy's face. "I know you're sleepy, and you were probably having a really wonderful dream, but I need you to get up, all right? I need you to get dressed. We have to go somewhere, and we need to hurry."

"Where?"

"Somewhere else," Emma answers, her voice quiet and terrible and full of so much that Lucy doesn't understand. Before she can ask Emma what's going on, she hears the sound of sirens.

Of an ambulance arriving.

"Don't look outside," Emma tells her.

"Why not?

"Mom?" Henry says, poking his head in. He's got two backpacks slung over his shoulder (one most certainly has the laptop he's been watching Storybrooke on), and the typewriter box in his hands.

"Dad, what's going on?" Lucy asks, rushing to her father. Then, "Where's Elizabeth?"

"Waiting for us to come get her," Henry answers cryptically. "But we need to get away first."

"You did something," she states. "You both did."

"We don't have time for this," Emma tells him, raw panic seeping around the edges of her voice.

"I know. Luce, take one of these bags, and let's go." He meets her eyes, solemn and strong.

Taking control in a way he seldom does.

Lucy nods, and quietly follows her father and grandmother out of the apartment and down the long corridor to the parking garage; in ten minutes, it'll be locked down, but right now, there's still too much confusion, and no one really knows what happened or who has been hurt. Leading them to his old Mustang, Henry ushers them inside, drops the typewriter and both bags into the trunk, and slides behind the wheel. "I know a place," he tells her as he fires up the engine and slowly steers the car out of the garage and onto the street.

"Good," Emma nods, and then stares out the window. As they approach the flashing lights, Henry eyes are drawn to Emma's hands; they are shaking terribly as she slowly flexes and releases her fists every few seconds, nails digging into her palms with each squeeze.

It reminds him of how she looked when he'd first brought Emma home from prison. How he would see the thousand-yard stare of someone lost in their memories … someone who knew that they couldn't survive going back there again. He's right. Looking back at her, he sees her wincing in pain, as her brow furrows and her eyes squeeze shut.

"It'll be okay," he tells her, painfully aware that he'd promised his other mother the same thing.

He'd failed her the first time – he won't fail either of them this time.

They finally pass the cops and the ambulance, and turn down another street.

Henry tries not to think about how they're leaving Regina behind.

Emma touches his arm and says in a soft shaky whisper, "We're going back for her. We are, Kid."

Like she knows what he'd been thinking.

Like she'd been thinking the same exact thing.

"Elizabeth, right?" Lucy asks. "We're going to help her?"

"Yeah, of course we are, Kiddo" Henry confirms, and then turns the radio on.

Listening grimly as a news bulletin about a shooting next to his apartment hits the airwaves.

Knowing in this moment that yes, Emma had been right about this being the endgame.

For all of them.

* * *

Elizabeth slides in and out of consciousness on her way to the hospital, the pain of multiple broken bones shoving her back towards the darkness every time she tries to fight back to lucidity. There's an IV running something into her bloodstream, and it feels good enough that she stops fighting.

Someone asks her, "Do you know what your name is?"

She murmurs, "No," and then fades back under.

Back to the world with the castles and galloping horses.

Suddenly, there's a woman leaning over her, asking, "Regina, how could you let this happen?"

The woman looks like a whole lot like her.

It has to be the drugs, Elizabeth decides - the _really_ fucking good drugs.

Because she knows her name, and it isn't Regina.

Her name is Elizabeth Carson and…

"No, it's not. You're not... _her_. You need to fight," the other-her growls.

"I don't want to die," she replies. "If I fight, he'll kill me."

"That's exactly why you need to fight." The other-her softens. "At least long enough –"

"Long enough for what?" Elizabeth wonder aloud, her words slurring.

"For our family to bring you home."

"I have no family."

"Deep down," the other-her whispers as she kisses her forehead. Her hand clutches at Elizabeth's and squeezing in a way that feels fierce and inexplicably both loving and deeply adoring, she adds, "You know that you do."

And then the other-her roughly pushes away from Elizabeth.

Her glare somehow challenging Elizabeth to hold on before she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke.

The next dream is about a dancing hippo…Elizabeth thinks maybe that one makes more sense.

* * *

As it turns out, Henry's "place" is a friend's rather low-rent apartment on the bad side of town.

As he knocks on the door, he turns to Emma, "We shouldn't be here. Lucy shouldn't be here."

"Why?" Emma asks, taking Lucy's hand and pushing her behind them.

"Because I met Andy right after Alicia passed away," Henry admits grimly, his face coloring with shame before he collects himself and forces himself to look at her. "I wasn't in a good place."

"Meaning?"

"I tried some stuff to help me forgot. My fault, not his. He just offered it, and I said yes because it seemed like a better idea than hurting. Then I remembered Lucy needed me, and I stopped." His eyes glaze for a moment, thinking back to a period in his life that he'd prefer to forget. He did not want either of his mothers to learn just how far he'd fallen. That the one with the heart of the truest believer had lost complete faith in everything for a time, and let everyone down.

His daughter – _Alicia's daughter_ – most of all.

At that moment, he swore that he'll never do that again; he'll never choose anyone or anything over Lucy.

"We all do what we have to do to survive," Emma tells him, her hand reaching out to take his hand and squeezes it, a fierce burning determination in her eyes, a need for him to really understand that these aren't just empty words to her. "You, me, Elizabeth. All of us, Henry."

"You think Mom will understand that any better than you or I do?" Henry counters.

"No," Emma agrees. "I think she won't understand it at all."

The door opens, and a young scraggly man appears. "Henry?"

"Hey, Andy," Henry replies. "Need a place to hang out for a few hours."

"You're in trouble?"

"Yeah."

Andy opens the door. "Come in." He smiles at Lucy. "This your little one?"

"Yeah, this is my Lucy."

"Hi, Lucy," Andy says. Then looks at Emma, "Girlfriend?"

"Family," Emma corrects. "And thank you. For the shelter."

"Henry took care of me even though he didn't have to. Got me into rehab."

"Did it take?"

"Some days," Andy admits with a weary shrug.

"Some days are better than no days, Andy," Henry smiles at him warmly, squeezing his arm.

"So, what happened? Can't be just another drunk and disorderly kind of mess."

"Someone we tried to help out of a bad marriage. Went…upside down." He glances over at Lucy, desperately wanting to hide the reality of this from her, even though he knows that they really can't.

Because eventually, saving Elizabeth means going back for her, and that means seeing her.

Lucy is going to see all the terrible damage that had been done to Elizabeth; and she's too smart of a child to believe any kind of bullshit cover-up tale.

"Cops involved?" Andy asks as he reaches over to a bowl and pulls out a couple of Hershey Kisses. He offers them to Lucy who thanks him and then presses one in to Henry's hand.

Saying with a small smile, "It ain't much, Henry, bro, but sugar is best, right?"

"Yep … Sugar is best," Henry repeats, like it's some kind of protective 12-step mantra, and Emma thinks that maybe it is (and finds herself understanding more than she wishes she did). After finishing off the little piece of chocolate, Henry lowers his voice and tells Andy, "The cops will be all over eventually. I promise, we'll be out of here before that happens. We just needed a place to regroup for a minute."

"Don't sweat it. Long as you need the roof, you've got it."

"Hey," Emma says. "You mind if I turn on the TV?"

"Nah." He hands her a remote and watches as Emma flips through the channels, looking for news.

What they find are several reports with scant details, confused witnesses who didn't really see much, yet described seeing everything from Santa Claus to the Easter Bunny in the alley, and everything in-between.

Eventually, the cops will figure it all out.

They'll figure out who Elizabeth and Trevor Carson are.

Trev has friends on the police force, and he'd been threatening to take out a restraining order.

It won't take long for them to put two and two together.

But fortunately, they haven't yet.

"We need to find out if she can be moved from the hospital," Emma tells Henry.

"You're thinking about a break-out?" he asks, and it's only because of the life they've lived – the adventures they've gone on together – that such a thought comes so easily to him.

"I think if we don't, our window to get to her is going to slam shut, and she's going to get swallowed up by the social services system, and there's a whole lot of well-meaning people who will just want to see her to go away, and by that, I mean back to her husband."

She starts pacing around, thinking out loud. "Problem is, I have no idea where we can go if we somehow manage to bust her out of there. Every cop in Maine is going to be on our ass – my ass – and no one is going to believe we kidnapped her because we're trying to get her away from that prick."

"Yeah," Henry agrees, frowning. Then, head tilting, he reaches behind him and pulls his backpack off. He hands it to Lucy, and extracts his laptop and pops it open. Two taps, and it's connected to the internet, and soon, he's staring at the image of the Storybrooke town line.

Right where it should be, the sign above it, bright and shimmering.

"Kid," Emma warns. "I watched it blink out. It might not be there when we get… _home_."

"I know, it's a hell of a risk," he agrees, looking up at her, a broad almost mad smile stretched across his lips. He looks over at his daughter, who faithfully nods along. "It's crazy. But –"

"Maybe," Emma finishes for him, tears in her eyes, because this is what they're down to.

"Do I even want to know?" Andy asks.

"Best you don't. After we leave, you never saw us," Henry tells him.

"That bad?"

"I shot someone," Emma answers. "He was a son of a bitch, but…I'm a felon."

"Which means it doesn't matter how big of a bastard he is, you're still fucked," Andy states.

"Yeah."

"I never saw you," Andy promises.

Henry nods in gratitude at him, and then turns to Emma. "We need a plan."

She offers him a somewhat sickly smile, looks over at Lucy and says, "I have one."

* * *

Elizabeth Carson is confused.

Terribly, horribly confused.

She's in a hospital bed with all sorts of tubes and wires attached to her (and she thinks a catheter as well, uncomfortably), with a fairly substantial (and quite welcomed) amount of very hard drugs pumping into her system. Only half lucid, she gingerly turns towards the tiny window in her room, and she can see her own reflection, her face swollen and bruised.

She can't quite figure out how she got here. One of the cops told her that it's the drugs and the trauma; and that she shouldn't worry too much about it because the mugger isn't here.

That's what they think.

They think that Elizabeth and her husband were mugged on their way back from a night out.

Only, she doesn't recall being anywhere with Trev.

Well, that's not entirely true – she recalls being in an alley with him, and feeling frightened, but the how and why of everything is muddled in her drug-fogged brain. However, the marks on her face … those she recognizes, and she knows what they mean even without the clear memories.

She's seen them a few times too many times not to understand exactly what they mean.

She's heard the ringing apologies that always followed, empty words meant for control not contrition.

Still, she's struggling to figure out what she's doing in this hospital; there's been other times when she's had to go in to get patched up, but she's never had to stay – she's never been hurt this badly.

Had he done this to her?

She remembers leaving him, standing outside and waiting for Emma.

And knows that the answer to the question is yes – yes, he had hurt her this badly.

The man she'd chosen to marry and spend her life with had –

"Mrs. Carson?" she hears coming from the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

"Alone," she says before she can think to stop herself.

"Your husband is just down the hallway," the nurse tells her. "He's going to be all right."

"He's hurt?"

"He was shot. The same person who hurt you," the nurse answers, but her head is cocked, and she quickly steps further into the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she lowers her voice and asks. "Was it the same person? If it wasn't, if it was someone else, you can tell me, honey."

Elizabeth looks right at her for a moment, considering whether or not she can trust this woman who actually seems to care. This woman who seems to understand that things aren't quite right. She shifts in the bed and tries to sit up, wondering if she should tell the nurse her story; but then her broken ribs are pulling, and every inch of her body is screaming, and suddenly the world is swaying out of focus once again.

It hurts.

 _It all hurts._

And the truth isn't something that is going to free her from the pain.

She'd already tried that with Emma, and where had it gotten her?

In a hospital bed, broken and alone – her supposed savior gone.

So much for heroes.

Which means there's only one place left for her to go, then – backwards.

Because if Trev had done this to her (and even with her head this fuzzy, she knows that he had), then it seems clear that he has no intention of ever letting her go. It seems clear that anything she does to get away will end up with her back in this room, until it inevitably ends with dirt covering her face.

Elizabeth closes her eyes, "Same person," she murmurs, and finds herself hoping that Emma and Henry have gotten far away from here, even as she finds herself hating both of them just a little bit for giving her the false hope of freedom and a new start.

Especially Emma.

No, Emma hadn't fully responded to the kiss – and to be fair, the kiss had been a test, and Elizabeth still isn't entirely sure what had possessed her to do it in the first place – but there'd been some kind of buzz of energy between them, a feeling and emotion that hadn't been all bad. She had felt something more than the grinding suffocation that almost every moment with Trev had become. Turns out, though, it had all been another lie.

Perhaps not an intentional one – she thinks Emma really had intended to help her find a way to escape the death-march she'd become entangled in (caused by her own weak choices, Elizabeth thinks grimly, wondering again why she'd ever though herself worthy of being set free from Trev) until things had gotten out of hand and Emma's sense of self-preservation had won out – but in the end, it was still a pointless lie.

"You're sure?" the nurse asks. "Because if it was someone else, I can help you."

"No, you can't," Elizabeth replied, the world going dark, her mind reaching out for the other version of her – and she wonders why this is the thought that lulls her into unconsciousness except that that other-her had felt strong and defiant and perhaps even bizarrely hopeful in a way that she knows that she's not – and not finding her. "No one can."

* * *

It's a terrible plan, Emma thinks, and almost backs out of it five times.

Henry almost backs out of it a dozen times because it involves Lucy, and he's afraid.

What if it goes wrong, and he ends up in jail; and Lucy ends up all alone?

But what if they don't rescue Elizabeth from this, and she ends up back with the man who had been shaking her like a ragdoll? What if Elizabeth – Regina – ends up dead because of his fears?

He's spent the better part of a decade missing both of his moms terribly, and right now perhaps more than he ever has, he simply wants his mom's arms around him, holding onto him like he's the moon and the stars, and just the feel of him in her arms can somehow make everything right again. As a young boy and even as a young adult, he hadn't recognized just how much a hug meant to her, but now he thinks that it might mean the same to him, and he craves just the simple contact.

Enough, though, to endanger Lucy?

"Kid," Emma says softly, a tremor to her voice, her fingers closing over his wrist. "I know."

"Mom –"

"I know this is a bad plan, but it's the only one I have." Desperation scratches at her words, and he thinks for a moment that she might start crying. His stomach heaves at even the idea of this because he's already seen it, and it's too much, and suddenly he is struck by the clear realization that no matter what it is that is yet to come, it's is going to get worse for all of them.

"Then I guess we'd better succeed," Henry states. "Because we promised Mom we'd save her."

He sounds so confident and assured even to his own ears, but then his eyes are straying over to Lucy who shares none of his worry, and all he can think is that Alicia would have his ass for this.

Regina would have his ass for this, he corrects grimly, and then looks back over at Emma who is fidgeting around in an almost unnerving way. Her anxiety is enough to let him know that this isn't a decision that she'll be able to rationalize away, especially if it goes upside down.

Emma nods sharply, almost jerkily at him, wincing slightly as her back pings (she'd taken a handful of aspirin before they'd left Andy's place). She glances back at Henry's mustang, the back of it containing the few things of his life he'd been able to escape with, along with a little bit of food and water that Andy had insisted they take in case they get stranded somewhere.

This is their getaway car – a vehicle given by two mothers as a present to their growing boy. This is their grand escape, their attempt to fix a thousand wrongs in a moment of insanity.

"Lucy," she says. "You understand what you need to do?"

"Get everyone away from Elizabeth's room."

"Yeah," Emma says. Then, softly, "If you're scared –"

"I'm not."

Emma swallows hard at that, unable to recall the last time that she wasn't.

She watches as Henry leans in and pulls his daughter close, hugging her and calling her brave.

This is wrong, they shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't be allowing this – Regina wouldn't.

Or maybe she would.

No, no…

They have no choice.

There's no other way to do this.

Lucy separates from her father, and grins up at Emma. "Ready."

"Right, then I guess we do this," Emma finally manages to grind out, and then gestures for Lucy to go ahead. She then looks right at Henry, tears in her eyes and mouths to him, "I'm sorry."

He says with an uncertain smile, "It'll be okay. It'll be okay."

All the while terrified that it won't be, and that he'll have lost everything when this is over.

* * *

"Mrs. Carson?" she hears from just above her.

" _Regina_ ," she murmurs in response, sounding as drugged up as she feels.

"Regina?"

Her eyes open, and she looks up, staring into the lights over her head. The painkillers they're pumping into her are significant – the breaks in her ribs and wrist are substantial (to say nothing of her broken nose or the roadmap of cuts across her face and back) – but this somehow feels even weirder than that. These bizarre dreams she keeps having so unnerving. Not the other-her this time, but rather she's sitting behind a desk in a large beautiful office.

With a grinning Emma Swan across from her, holding out two bottles of root beer to her.

Which, obviously, makes no sense at all.

"Mrs. Carson, who is Regina?" the nurse asks, glancing nervously as Elizabeth's vitals.

"A dream," Elizabeth replies groggily. "Maybe a better dream."

"It's going to be all right," the nurse tells her. "You're safe now."

"No, I'm not," Elizabeth murmurs, and sighs against the blissful flush of narcotics in her system.

She knows that she shouldn't be saying these things, shouldn't be allowing any of her fears to surface, but it's the drugs and the pain, and right now she just wants it all to go away.

It won't – it never does, but she thinks maybe if someone else understands –

But no, she'd tried that with Emma and Henry, and here she is, and they're not here and –

"Hey, Kid!" someone yells from outside the room. "Stop that!"

The nurse looks at her, and smiles, "I'll be right back." And with that, she's out of the room, stepping out into a chaos zone where a nine-year-old girl is tossing papers in every direction.

Elizabeth doesn't see this, however; she only sees the walls and feels the grinding loneliness.

Her natural state of things, she thinks, as she allows her eyes to drift closed.

Until she hears, "Actually, this would be a whole lot easier if you were awake."

"Emma?" she asks (probably more like slurs – her speaking is muffled thanks to her nose) in absolute disbelief, and then blinks several times as if trying to clear the insanity from her vision.

Because quite clearly, the drugs here really are good.

But then she sees Henry standing right behind Emma, nervously glancing backwards at the door. Like he's watching whatever is going on out there (he is, and he breathes in relief when he sees Lucy escape down the stairwell, and the security guards hold back, looking uncertain).

"Yeah, and we're getting you out of here," Emma states, and then she's moving over to Elizabeth, looking over all the wires and tubes that tether her to the bed. She lifts the blanket, and then shakes her head, grimacing. "This is going to be uncomfortable," she admits.

"What are you going to do? Are you real? Why are you here?" Elizabeth tilts her head, fighting through the fog even as she tries to understand the idea of anyone coming back for her.

Which means this can't be real, because no one ever would do that for her.

Except Trev.

Trev will always come back for her.

Whether she wants him to or not.

"I promised you that I'd be here for you," Emma tells her, interrupting her rapidly darkening thoughts. "I know that's hard for you to believe, especially right now, but I try to keep my promises. Sometimes it takes a very long time and I screw up badly along the way, but I try."

"Why?"

"Because I'm nothing otherwise, and I've been that enough in my life," Emma insists, a strange dullness in her voice. "Now take a deep breath, okay? This is going to hurt a lot. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Mom, you need to hurry," Henry says from the doorway. "She just ran outside; we're out of –"

"I know, Kid. I know."

"Mom?" Elizabeth repeats, but then the thought is fading away. Only the sharp pain she feels as Emma yanks out a tube that brings a moment of clarity to her, but then there's just hurt.

So much pain.

"I don't want to…no more," she mumbles, words falling over each other. "It hurts."

"Just one more," Emma promises, and then the IV is gone, and she's helping a clearly reluctant to move Elizabeth up from the bed, an arm gently slung around Elizabeth's wounded side as the other woman practically folds into her as every part of her seems to cry out. "I'm so sorry," she tells her again. "I'm so sorry about letting you down. About letting you be hurt. I'm sorry."

"Emma," Henry warns, trying not to look back at his mothers.

Terrified of what he'll see.

Terrified that he will see them both breaking apart at the same time.

"We're ready," Emma assures him. "Show me the way."

"Yeah," he agrees, and then he's sliding out the door, reaching back for Emma's hand as if to guide her down the hallway. To the other side, down the other hall, crossing behind the medical staff and security officers who are standing by the nurse's station, laughing about the crazy kid who had disappeared down the stairwell. Joking about how nothing around this place is ever normal and … and then one of the nurses is looking at him, her eyes widening.

Henry freezes and swallows hard, his heart pounding erratically, fear overwhelming him.

Her eyes drop down to Emma, who is so gentle in the way she's holding Elizabeth against her.

The nurse turns away, stepping in front of the cops as if to obscure their vision should they choose to suddenly look up and notice two newcomers leaving with a patient.

"Now," Henry murmurs, and then they're moving again.

They don't have much time, he knows – within minutes, Elizabeth's absence will be noticed.

They only have –

"Shit," Emma growls, and yeah, there's a security officer at the end of the hallway.

Emma bends, then, and lifts Elizabeth into her arms, every nerve in her body protesting.

"Mom, no," Henry says immediately, seeing both women wince, hearing their whimpers.

Emma's back…Elizabeth's everything.

"Lead," Emma growls at him, eyes watering, tears on her cheeks. What she feels right now is practically beyond description, the pain worse than anything she's ever felt before – and that includes the rawness of a few of the terrible beatdowns she'd suffered while in prison – but she knows that if she doesn't do this, if she doesn't take control where Henry can't, it's all over.

For all of them.

Thankfully, he doesn't hesitate this time, just turns and leads them away from the guard, knowing that if the man turns in the least, he will see them and know that something peculiar is happening. Any minute now, he's going to get a call, anyway, telling him that a patient is gone.

Any minute now and –

"Hey, stop!"

It's _that_ minute now.

They move quickly, and he thinks that maybe it's all a blur because this should be impossible. It has to be impossible to do what they just did, and to have succeeded ... unbelievable. But they did do it, and Elizabeth is in Emma's arms, and Emma is yanking open the car door and –

"Dad!" Lucy calls out, a massive grin on her face.

He grabs her, then, crushing her to him, kissing her hair. "Are you hurt?" he asks.

"No, Dad, I'm okay," she promises him. "I'm okay."

He exhales, "Okay. Okay."

"Henry, Lucy, in," Emma demands. "Lucy, ride shotgun. Henry, this is going to be a bumpy ride – someone needs to hold your mom, or she's going to end up even worse off than she is now."

He thinks to counter the possibility of that and insist that he should be the one driving instead of Emma, but then his eyes are fixed Elizabeth's unconscious form, and all he can think about is "your mom" and that's more than enough to jolt him into action. He slides into the backseat, gently lifting Elizabeth into his arms, bringing her against his chest; gently holding her against him as she stirs anxiously, and then she settles into his arms with a sharp whimper.

The door slams, and Emma is starting the engine up, fingers tight on the wheel.

He wonders just how bad her back is going to be when this is all over.

If it will even matter.

"Where are we going?" Henry asks her as they pull out onto the street. Half a block away, they see a whole line of police cruisers suddenly arriving, their sirens loud and colorful.

"Home," Emma answers grimly.

"As in Storybrooke? But…you don't –"

"Believe that it's there?" She shrugs her shoulders wearily. "I guess I'd goddamn better start believing, because if it's not there –" she swallows and refuses to finish the sentence.

No good mother would.

Not that has any right to call herself a good anything after tonight.

"It'll be there," Lucy states, firmly taking over her father's role as the Truest Believer. " _It will."_

"Take us home," Henry tells her, and then pulls the woman in his arms even closer.

* * *

Storybrooke is approximately one hour from Bangor by highway.

It's a relatively easy trip in normal weather, but can get kind of gnarly in any kind of weather.

Thankfully, the storm that is threatening hasn't yet started coming down.

Unfortunately, that hardly matters because there are now half a dozen cop cars on their ass.

"Emma Swan," they'd called out, and she thinks that the cop Trev asked to check her out had managed to get her identity out to everyone. "You don't want to do this. We can help you."

She'd almost laughed when she'd heard the cop's voice over the loud speaker.

Because by help, they'd meant either kill her or send her back to prison.

No sooner had she thought this then her phone had started buzzing; Henry's, too.

JB had been calling for Henry, trying to reason with him, "Henry, this is stupid. I told you that woman would get you into trouble. Kid, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?"

Henry's response had been to toss his phone – with JB alternately ranting and assuring him he can fix this - out the rolled-down window, saying he's not gonna need it anymore, anyway.

One way or another.

Emma had answered hers, and listened to the soft mewling words about standing down.

After replying, "Whatever happens here, I'm the only one responsible. This is my fault."

Her phone went out the window, too.

"They think that we have nowhere to go," Henry states, glancing back at them. For the last twenty minutes, he's been expecting them to accelerate and overtake the orange Mustang, but they've held back, keeping in tight formation as opposed to intensifying the car chase.

"Yeah," Emma answers, shifting against her seat, ignoring the raw shooting agony which she feels shooting through her back, all the while wondering if there are painkillers strong enough to help the damage which has been done to her, knowing she would make the same decision she'd made tonight a thousand times over if it gave them this one last chance. "How is she?"

"Hurt," Henry answers, arms still tucked around Elizabeth's half-conscious form. She keeps drifting in and out, letting out a soft cry every now and again before collapsing back into a shuddering state of semi-consciousness, never really coming close to being at all lucid.

He thinks that they're breaking her and has to stop himself from breaking down.

"We're almost there," Emma tells him softly, eyes flicking up towards the rearview mirror.

Because the cops _are_ speeding up; Henry doesn't know about this kind of thing, but she does – they see her as a violent felon who has kidnapped at least one person, maybe even three.

Eventually, they plan to shoot to kill.

As if somehow recognizing her thoughts – which, of course, she couldn't possibly – Lucy puts her hand out and covers Emma's with it, squeezing with the strength that only a child can.

Henry sees this, and asks, "Are you okay?" Stupidly, because he already knows the answer. He knows that she's crumbling, and has been for weeks now, and is finally coming entirely apart.

He thinks maybe they all are.

"No," she admits, her fingers gripping at the steering wheel, her foot slamming the accelerator down as she continues to push Henry's old Mustang to give them everything she has in her.

Henry's face contorts with a kind of fresh panic, "Emma –"

"Kid, ahead."

His head turns at the same time as Lucy's does – both of them seeing a green sign there.

Lucy whispers – like it's something holy and perfect instead of a broken home, "Storybrooke."

* * *

Elizabeth has no idea why she's in this car.

Okay, that's not entirely true – she's somewhat aware that Emma and Henry had taken her from the hospital, but she can't really figure out why they had bothered? Why they had put themselves at such risk for her? She can't figure out what kind of game this has to be.

It has to be one.

She tries to fight through the pain and the fear for some kind of truth, but the only truth she has ever known is that in the end, the only one who had ever cared for her was the man who had also put her in that hospital bed with his fists. He, and he alone has ever loved her, right?

And yet here she is, in Henry's arms as the road below them thumps and sirens behind scream.

She doesn't understand anything, anymore. Not this, and not the dreams.

But someone is saying, "You're almost home, Regina. Almost there."

She looks up and sees herself, eyes dark and so defiant and powerful.

"Be strong."

"I don't know how," Elizabeth murmurs.

"You do. Better than anyone else. You are Regina Mills, and you are a Queen. You are strong –"

"No, I'm not. I'm not anything. I'm –"

" _Yes, you are."_

She's about to reply, about to insist – in a moment of pure insanity – that this person who looks just like her couldn't possibly know or understand her well enough to be so certain, but then the world is suddenly crumbling, and her mind is splitting into a thousand sharp shards of glass.

The last thing she hears before she gives into the seizure is the squeal of a car coming to a stop, and Henry (why is he suddenly so much more familiar) screaming, "Mom, what to do I do?"

* * *

The sudden seizure that started the moment they'd rolled over the town line is violent, and her body is slamming against the seats, jerking her out of Henry's arms as her eyes roll back into her head. Cuts appear on her hands and arms, and a deep ugly gash forms on her left shin.

Because more injuries are exactly what she needs.

Not that she's aware of any of this.

The only thing she's aware of is the splicing, nearly unimaginable pain in her head as a thousand memories force their way into her brain, brutally chipping away at the forged ones there.

She tries to reach for them, tries to grab at her identity and figure out who she is, but there are lights bursting behind her eyes. She feels herself being held, but in that distant kind of way that makes little sense. She thinks of Emma and Henry and her last moments of awareness, and then she thinks of an alley and a dead man and another man wrapping himself around her.

She thinks of curling into his chest and falling into his desires, surrendering herself to him in the hope of being safe. She thinks of him over her, his body overpowering her and possessing her, and then his face is changing and he's Leopold instead and Regina just keeps shaking apart.

The memories come faster, gods so fast, and there's something wet running down her.

She feels pain – in her chest, in her bones, in her face, and all of is so distinct, and none of it is.

And then…and then it all just _stops_.

The colors, the memories, everything, it all just fades and drifts away. Like the kind of hazy toxic cloying smoke that forms over the ruins leaving nothing but ashes to scatter into the darkness.

That's what she feels like right now – like she's _scattering_.

There's a new sensation, then – cold air on her face, drops of water on her eyelids. She feels herself being lifted and carried, set down on the cold hard ground, asphalt in her nostrils.

"Mom? Can you hear me?"

A siren blares loudly behind them, the kind of whirling noise that comes from police cars.

Details that no longer matter to her.

She tries to speak, tries to acknowledge Henry.

Henry, who is both her son and a stranger.

Henry, the son whom she'd taken to school and never seen again.

Henry, the stranger whom she once had believed had wanted to _fuck_ her.

Gods, what is wrong with her?

What has she become?

Who has she become.

She thinks of the Queen, and wants to laugh at the very idea of _strength_.

"She's not responding," Henry says, and sounds panicked. "Emma, why isn't –"

"I don't know, Kid," Emma replies; Regina focuses in on her voice, like a lifeline.

And then hates herself for doing it.

Her thoughts are interrupted by hands settling on her face, calloused but familiar, and there's another memory that slams its way into her mind – one of those same hands touching her face and gently bringing her closer, the gaudy walls of a hotel room shimmering into focus around them as Emma had backed her up against the door, their alcohol-tinged breaths mingling.

" _I'm going to kiss you now."_

" _You really need to work on your seduction techniques, Swan._ _"_

" _Maybe, but I_ _'_ _m still going to kiss you._ _"_

" _Anytime soon?_ _"_

" _Yeah. Real soon._ _"_

Regina blinks, more water on her face, trying to simultaneously grab at and clear away these rampaging thoughts and shadowy memories, none of them real and yet all of them real.

"I need you to look at me, okay?" Emma says. "I'm hoping you remember who you actually are right now. If you do, then you're probably really confused, and I imagine this is all pretty scary, and…I know that you're in a lot of pain, Regina. I know, and I'm so sorry I couldn't stop that from happening. That I couldn't stop any of this from this happening. I tried…I…but I think we're home now. This town wasn't here and now it is so…I think maybe we made it. We're home. But I need you to look at me, okay? I need you to tell me that you understand what I'm saying."

Regina tries to reply, tries to tell Emma that she can hear and understand her, but the words catch as another slate of memories shoves its way in – the alley and Trev's hands around her. The way he had throttled her, and she had allowed it. The way she had shattered in his grasp.

She hears Henry say, "We need to get her to a hospital."

And thinks both "yes" and "no" and wonders which is the real her.

The woman who craves the drugs that will push her away from all of this or the ones who is clawing for some degree of control, insisting that if she can just get it, she can be strong.

She hears Emma say something about the curse, and her mind rails against such a thing even as she knows – better than anyone – that curses exist and can destroy a soul from top to bottom.

Henry argues with her, but his actual words fade from her as she continues fighting her own internal battle to figure out whether it will be Elizabeth or Regina who emerges from this.

"Because she's the town," Emma says in an exhale of breath, and Regina thinks it has to be her.

Even if maybe she doesn't entirely want it to be.

But then, just as she's considering retreating again and allowing Elizabeth to take over (Elizabeth doesn't want to, but in her own weird defeated way, also doesn't quite know how to give up even when she should) feels hands gripping and then covering hers – a surreal feeling for a woman who has spent so very much of her life feeling only the very worst of things.

Emma. Henry. Lucy.

Regina – yes, Regina - swallows hard and forces the words out. "Em – Emma? Hen – Henry?"

Broken, torn apart, but still heard; it has to be enough.

She turns her hand, covers theirs with hers, desperately reaching for them – for her family.

"Yeah, we're here," Emma assures her, sounding so disbelieving, so much like she, too, is breaking somewhere down the middle of her.

She asks if they'd made it, like she'd been an active part of the journey.

Instead of just the pathetic victim.

Instead of just the one who had needed to be rescued.

There are so many faces and voices in her mind all of the sudden, so many conflicting stories.

The Queen says, "Fight."

But Trev is there, too and he's shaking his head and saying, "Lizzie, you know you can't."

If Emma or Henry is aware of the war within her, neither indicate as much, both of them just looking down at her like they're finally truly seeing her (and hoping that she truly sees them).

"Yeah, Regina," Emma says quietly, so much relief in her voice, fingers gripping at Regina's, the hold secure and strong and so faithfully full of all that is Emma Swan, "We made it home."

"Home," Regina murmurs, and then exhales, slowly and shakily, her ribs protesting the deepness of it.

She blinks and blinks and all of the voices and faces are fading.

Except for one.

The one identity which she grabs desperately for.

And then, she laughs almost hysterically.

Arms and legs slapping against the wet ground, ignorant of the searing pain in her body.

Aware only of the fact that after ten long years, for better or for worse, she's _finally Regina Mills once again._

:D

* * *

 _Afterword_ **: We are now at the half-point stage of the storytelling (not necessarily word-count wise). From here, we take on the very difficult, very emotional task of working through ten years of damage to the families Swan, Mills and Charming. All of them have been through so much, and getting through this part might actually be more difficult than surviving what came before it. Buckle in. And thank you for taking this intense trip with me.**


	12. Nine

**A/N: There are always consequences, my friends...and healing (eventually) but first, fall-out.  
**

 **Warnings: Residual of domestic abuse, language, the beginnings of PTSD, and foreboding, wahoo.**

 _Let me know your thoughts! Thanks as always!_

* * *

 _Before._

He's never feared reaching for his wife when it's clear she needs it, but in this moment, the energy coming off of her is terrifying, and David stalls. Momentarily, and barely noticeably, but everything around them right now is bad. That seems an insignificant word for all of this, and yet it's the only one that comes to mind as David follows Snow's gaze towards the door of Gold's shop.

A door that Regina, Emma, and Hook had just gone through.

As they'd made their way to the town line, leading the dust like a trio of pied pipers.

Only the pied pipers are at war, at dangerous emotional odds.

"What a shitty time for them to have fucked it up," Zelena says abruptly.

"It's going to be fine," Snow says, resolute and eyes fiery. "We always make it through."

"Until we don't," Gold sighs from the doorway. He looks over at Belle and shakes his head to stop her from admonishing him for his negativity. It's not that he doesn't appreciate her usual optimism and light, it's just that right here and now, there's no place for it. Regina and Emma either succeed in their mission or it's all over.

And his mother will surely destroy them all.

The man once known as Rumplestiltskin to everyone, now better known as Gold to the people in this town, has been afraid of few things since he took on the darkness. Losing the love of his life by somehow failing her and his child (again)…that, he remains terrified of. Above all of that, though, is his fear of his mother and her ways.

Dark, cold, and unrelenting in a way that went far beyond the worst done by the Dark One and the Evil Queen.

He knows her vengeance will be unspeakably terrible, and that alone is why they must stop it.

It won't be a quiet boring listless life in an otherwise safe small town.

Oh, no…no, it will be something far more heinous, and none of them will escape the blow-out from it.

"He's right," Zelena snaps, her lip curling. "I should be out there with Regina."

"You remember what she said," Snow reminds her. "Two magic users out there –"

"Two back here," Zelena sighs. "The last line of defense in case they fail."

"Protecting our children," Snow insists, a hand settling on Zelena's forearm in an attempt to comfort the other woman. It's a pointless endeavor, because neither of them will be calm until Regina, Emma and Hook return.

"Except Henry. Who is safe on the other side," David reminds them. He shakes his head. "We didn't talk about it, but should we let Henry know something is going on…in case…" he swallows hard at the thought.

"No," Snow says immediately. "He'll rush home and…we want our children out of the line of fire." She blinks back tears, realizing that with her own words, she's admitted that she, too, has doubts about all of this working.

About getting to see tomorrow.

"So, what do we do, then?" Zelena asks. "Just wait?"

"It's all we can do," Gold replies, sounding suddenly so very tired. "But not all in one place."

"Shouldn't we stay together?" Snow asks.

"As you said, Zelena and I are the only two remaining magic users after Regina and Emma. The Blue Fairy is useless against my mother, so if she breaks past them, we're all that stands between her and this town. It seems to me that it makes more sense for both of us to not be in the same place. At least make her have to work for her victory."

"Okay," David says softly, stepping forward. "Zelena, get Robin, and you two can come back to –"

"We go to Regina's house," Zelena cuts in. "It's the most fortified place outside of her vault or this shop. The vault's energy might technically be stronger, but it is…not…it's not where we want to be. Too many bad things have happened in there, and they left a signature behind that the Black Fairy can feed off. Regina's house feels –"

"Warm now," Snow nods. "Then that's where we go." She looks over at Belle. "And you?"

"We'll go back to our house as well. Even without the intense magical energy of this shop, it's the safest place that _we_ have." She smiles and adds. "For the same reason that Regina's mansion is the safest for all of you." She steps around the counter and gives both David and Snow a hug. "Be safe. Hopefully, this will all be over soon."

"Hopefully," Snow agrees. Then looks at Zelena, "Let's go."

They start towards the door, and then Zelena turns back, "Can Regina survive what they're doing out there?"

"She can," Gold tells her.

"Will she?"

He doesn't reply, just stares at her.

"Right," she says, then turns and walks away, her steps clipped and sharp, her fears on display for all of them.

Not that all of them don't share her fears.

* * *

 _Now._

Rain still dripping down her face and into her eyes, Regina starts to sit up slowly, grinding her teeth together as waves of pain shoot through her. "Easy," Emma suggests, a hand settled lightly on her back. Not that Regina (now herself again, she thinks and then wonders if that's actually true) listens any more than she ever has. However, it's almost immediately too much, and her broken bones scream at her until she slumps back, practically falling backwards into Emma's arms as she breathes heavily.

Her mind is still spinning, still too many colors and too many shadows to make any sense of them, even as she remembers.

Who she is, but not yet how she came to be here.

Not yet what is happening around her.

The discordant voices in her mind – the Queen and Elizabeth – have faded to nonsensical whispers for the moment, but she still recalls their existence and puzzles over that, trying to yank on enough disjointed strings to somehow make sense of what's happening right now. Unfortunately for her and her sanity (not that she has much of that left, she thinks darkly, somewhat coherently for a few seconds before the thoughts turn considerably darker and then scatter apart like ashes in a fireplace), the images in her mind are too chaotic and too absurd for her to make sense of, which in and of itself causes her anxiety to ramp up, her heart rate increasing to almost painful levels.

Everything is bad right now - everything hurts and aches, and yet it all feels so distant to her, so gray and abstract.

Voices suddenly catch her attention, pulling her away from the pain of her body, and she turns her head to stare at the town line, the sign looming over it.

The town line, where the Bangor cops still linger, ambling around in confusion.

One takes a step towards the line, and then stops, looking even more perplexed, "Nothing that way," he says.

Seeming to understand that his words don't make sense.

Because they'd seen the Mustang in front of them, and then it'd been gone. Like it'd vanished into thin air.

And for reasons none of them can understand, every time they try to move forward, they want to take a step backwards.

"How the hell did they slip back around us?" one of the cops asks, looking up and down the road.

"Mom," Henry says suddenly. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No hospital," Regina murmurs. "Help me up." She extends a hand, like she's expecting them to follow orders.

Only her voice is shaky, and her face is swollen and bruised.

She is not the imposing undeniable Queen of so many decades ago.

She's not even the quieter but steely Mayor of just one decade ago.

Her dark eyes plead and water, her fingers tremble, but still she holds her hand out to them, her eyes finding Emma's, squinting at her like she's remembering something.

Something that matters.

Something that changes everything.

It's not quite there, though, and her hand stays out towards Emma.

"Shoes first," Emma tells her, and then she's offering Regina sneakers, preparing herself for a sharp retort.

Regina just stares at them for a moment, like she doesn't quite understand. Like they don't make sense to her.

Emma wonders if maybe the part of her that is still Elizabeth isn't fighting against the part that is now Regina.

"I'll help," Lucy says, dropping down beside her grandmother, and quickly puts the sneakers on. It happens so quickly and effortlessly; Regina's eyes go from staring at the shoes to staring at Lucy's hands as she ties the laces to looking at Lucy's face as she gives Regina a massive satisfied grin. "All good," she announces.

"Yes, all good," Regina murmurs. She looks at Emma, "Now?"

"Yeah, okay," Emma agrees, even though she'd prefer to argue the point and keep Regina down a bit longer. It's pointless, though, so Emma stands and helps Regina to her feet, placing an arm around her waist. For a moment, Regina clings to her, almost hugging her, her head lolling as if to settle on Emma's shoulder. It's a weird sort of embrace, a physical connection between the two of them that feels real and yet somehow still too distant to grab onto and hold.

Then, just like that, Regina's eyes widen, and she's shoving away from Emma.

"Hey -" Emma starts, but stops when she sees that Regina's push away from her had brought her closer to Henry.

And it's like she's seeing him for the first time since she'd woken up.

Ten lost years suddenly crashing down on her.

"Henry," she whispers, and then she's surging towards him, seemingly unaware of her massive injuries as she yanks him into her arms and holds on tight, her frail body not seeming so frail in the grip of a crushing hug.

"Mom," he whispers, his own hold looser, but only because he so desperately fears hurting her.

She might not realize how wounded she is, but he most certainly does.

Just as he's suddenly even more aware just how small she really is; he's known her as Elizabeth for the last few months, and certainly seen the evidence of the Black Fairy's destructive vengeance on her body and her spirit; but holding her now, feeling her against him, it's real and physical in a way that makes his stomach violently roll.

He feels her tears on his shoulder, feels the way her fingers grip at his back, pressing inwards.

"Henry, Henry, _Henry_ ," she whispers, more to herself than him, like she's convincing herself this is real. She burrows in deep, clinging to him in a way she'd never have allowed herself to do before all of this had happened.

And she'll probably stop herself from doing it any longer when it hits her that she's falling apart in front of Henry.

"What's wrong with her?" Lucy asks, looking over at Emma. "Why is she so scared? We're home, right?"

"She's been through a lot," Emma answers, because what else do you say to a child? It's already somewhat strange to her that Lucy sees this town as home considering the fact that this is her first time inside of Storybrooke.

But stories matter, Emma supposes, and perhaps their story matters most of all.

"Mom," Henry says gently. "I'm here. It's okay. We're all okay now."

She separates slowly from him, one hand settling on each of his cheeks as she looks up at him. Emma notes the slight reddening of her cheeks (it's admittedly difficult to see amongst all of the other colors there), a sure sign that yes, Regina recognized what she'd been doing and yes, she's embarrassed by her perceived weakness. Frankly, Emma doesn't know whether to derive relief from that old school habit or brace for an emotional impact.

"It's…it's not…you've gone and grown up on me," Regina says to him, drawing Emma's attention back to the here and now, and away from her darkening thoughts. With a forced smile that looks pained, Regina adds in a just barely audible whisper, "Last I remember, you were just a little boy, my little boy, and now you're a man, Henry."

Henry smiles almost shyly at her. "I may be a lot taller and a lot older, Mom, but I'm still your little boy."

"No," she says, and then turns from him. Were it not for the way her hand is still clutching his wrist, squeezing it in the strongest grip she can manage, he'd probably feel as though she had just ripped his heart out with her words. But, as he takes in her shuddering form and choked breathing, he realizes that she's far from being in control of herself.

Far from thinking clearly.

He looks at Emma, and she inclines her head, as if to tell him the same thing he's already thinking: be patient.

Which, he kind of knows is okay; that after all his mom has been through, it's going to take her some time to find her equilibrium again. So redirecting, Henry tells her again, "Mom, we need to get you back to the hospital."

She replies the same way she had before, "No hospital." She looks down at the bathrobe in disgust. "We need to find everyone."

"We will," Emma tells her. "If the hospital is still here –"

"No hospital," she says once more, a dangerous sounding edge in her voice. "I can heal myself." As if to prove her point, she waves her right hand over a cut on her left forearm, presumably to use magic to close up the wound. Unfortunately, being back home really doesn't mean that all is well again, because no sooner does she make the gesture, and she's doubling forward, a sharp cry of pain bursting out, sparks popping from her hands.

"Regina!"

"Mom!"

Lucy might have yelled something as well, but whatever it was (Emma thinks that it was "Elizabeth!"), the words are lost in the chaos of all of three of them jerking towards Regina to keep her from hitting the ground.

 _Again_.

Because they have seen that happen too many times already.

It's Emma's arms that circle Regina first, her knees down beside Regina as they kneel on the ground. She feels a surge of pain in her back – a reminder that numbness never stays and eventually there is hurt – but ignores it, her fingers gripping at Regina so as to give her the physical grounding to fight past the pain that she, too, is feeling.

Sometimes, Emma muses darkly, their habit of walking parallel paths together can really go a bit too far.

"So much for my magic," Regina mutters after a few seconds. She pats Emma's hand, and then pushes it away from her, shoving herself back to her feet, the lines around her eyes tightening in reaction to the way her abused body responds to the sudden movement. Both Henry and Emma protest, but she turns her attention to Emma, shaking her head as she says, "Unless your magic is working better than mine, we really only have one choice."

Gritting her teeth in preparation of feeling the same painful response that Regina had when she had tried to access her magic, Emma flicks her hand, trying to make…something happen. But there's nothing.

No sparks, no pain, nothing.

"No," she says softly, and doesn't know if what she's feeling is disappointment, surprise, or relief.

Perhaps all and none.

"Well, that's that," Regina says, and then moves forward, jerking sharply and then wincing as her body protests; she shouldn't be standing, but pure audacity and stubbornness are keeping her upright. Propelling her onwards.

Emma thinks she should be thankful to see the old Regina fighting back, but there's something wild about her right now. Something that doesn't feel like the comfort of the old Regina, but rather the devastation of the bastardized version. This woman standing in front of her isn't just Regina Mills, Emma thinks grimly…she's likely also a bit of the Queen and Elizabeth Carson, and all three of these personalities are colliding together without caution.

Without care.

The debris left behind after a violent accident.

Only this hadn't been an accident – this had been a savage attack by the Black Fairy, an act of vengeful war that has left all of them torn asunder. How badly so, well she supposes that all depends on what they find in town.

"The town is that way," Regina states, making it clear that she's thinking the exact same thing Emma is. "So that's where we're going because…because we have to know, Emma." She takes another step, and then slumps, her teeth grit as she just does manage to stop herself from screaming. When she looks up, it's directly at Emma and not Henry, and Emma feels like this is weirdly significant but not in a way that makes her feel warm and fuzzy. "I need to get into Storybrooke," Regina tells her. "I'm getting there with or without you." She's still bent, still breathing hard, and it's clear that she's asking for help in the only way she can – a way without the actual words.

Because maybe the actual words make her weak now – make her something breakable and even broken.

"We're with you," Emma promises her, and thinks that it sounds lame even to her ears; insignificant, perhaps.

"Yeah, Mom," Henry tells her, moving to her side. His arm slides around her, and there's a catch to her body – some kind of undeniable resistance to his touch – before she finally settles against him. Strange considering how she'd rushed to hold him just a few minutes ago, but Henry wonders (with a sinking heart) if maybe all of the memories of the last few years – the last few months in particular – are hitting her terribly hard right now.

Including what had clearly been some kind of wariness, even fear, of her typically beloved son.

"Okay," Regina says softly. Then she looks over at Emma and Lucy. Her eyes settle on Lucy, curiosity and even affection for the young girl blossoming there (Henry takes note of this, thinking that it's meaningful in a way he's not quite ready to examine) before she turns back towards the road ahead and slowly, one foot forward, starts walking.

Towards the center of Storybrooke.

Where either their family still exists or they don't.

* * *

 _Before._

"Mama," Robin says, reaching a hand out for her anxiously pacing mother. The little girl's loose auburn curls bounce as she nods in time with every long stride Zelena takes – back and forth across the kitchen in Regina's house.

"They'll pull through," Snow insists, but she doesn't sound as sure as she needs to be. Over an hour has passed since Regina, Emma, and Hook left the store, and she desperately hopes that the lack of anything happening can be considered a good thing, but there's a gnawing fear in the middle of Snow's stomach. A desperate clawing worry.

"They won't," Zelena replies, and then turns to look right at Snow and David. Neal is clutched in his father's arms, his head nestled against his shoulder, sleeping soundly as he always seems to be able to do. That quiet calm has always been something Regina loves about her godson; he rests in her arms and is at peace there, and she loves him for it.

Everyone from Zelena to Snow to Emma has teased her about her clear and open affection for the youngest Charming, Emma going so far as to pout every now and again about how Regina clearly prefers Neal over her. Obnoxious flirting, but up until their night in Boston, it seemed harmless, if not slightly sad because of the hopelessness of it. At least that's what it had always seemed like to Zelena, considering Emma's marriage to Killian Jones.

Yet as she gazes at Neal, she thinks that somehow, love always finds a way. Perhaps even when it shouldn't. Even when it's wrong, and there are other commitments, and gods, what does she know or care about such things? Except she's supposed to, and isn't cheating on one's spouse wrong? But if someone isn't happy, then is it right to stay?

These are questions beyond a woman who has only – romantically – loved men who have used and betrayed her.

"Mama," Robin says again. Zelena turns to her, looking into her daughter's beautiful blue eyes. She looks so much like her father for a moment, and Zelena feels a sharp stab of guilt in the middle of her gut. Perhaps none of them would be in this situation if she hadn't done what she did to Robin Hood. Perhaps Regina and Robin would be wonderfully happy right now, and they all would have been able to stand up to the Black Fairy as a united family.

Oh, she thinks – knows – that she wouldn't have been a part of this family, but still, maybe that would have been better? It seems to her that she fails at pretty much everything she does – protecting Regina most of all.

"Mama, no tears," Robin tells her, and then she's climbing into her mother's arms. She's too tall for this to be comfortable – Charming holds Neal far more easily (Regina does, too, but Zelena suspects some magic there) – but she holds her daughter against her anyway, kissing the top of her hair like it might be the last time that she does.

Because she knows.

Yes, it's been an hour, and everyone wants to believe that time has passed for the better, but she knows.

She looks at Snow and David, and meets their eyes, and all three of them know their family has been lost.

Snow drops a hand to her belly, like she's thinking about a child who had once been in there.

"David," she says.

He shakes his head; Neal stirs, eyes opening.

"They lost," Zelena says dully, nodding towards the window since Snow and David are still looking at her. She points out the window towards a pillar of black dust, swirling and spilling out in every single direction.

And then, like something out of a horror movie, a woman emerges from the dust.

The Black Fucking Fairy – walking directly towards the front door of the house.

"Zelena," Snow breathes.

"Take her," Zelena orders, kissing Robin on the forehead. "I love you, my little bean. More than you can imagine, I love you. I'll do everything I can do to keep you safe." Robin starts to protest, tries to tighten her hold around her mother, somehow knowing, even as a child, that what's happening is terrible. "No, baby, go with Snow and David."

"All of us are going," David tells her. "We're not leaving you up here alone."

"I'm the one with the magic. This is my job now," Zelena insists. "Take our children down to the basement."

"We stand together," Snow reiterates, her eyes wet with tears as she struggles to emotionally absorb what Fiona's presence means for Regina, Emma, and Hook. "We protect each other. That's what our family would want for us."

"You're all bloody fools," Zelena hisses, but then she's staggering away from the window, and ushering them towards the door that leads to the basement. Her back is to the Charmings, her eyes still on the window as Fiona continues to approach. Zelena's hands extend and she sends a burst of white-green energy towards the door and wall, putting up a shield that she knows will fall within minutes.

But maybe it'll give them all time to get below.

Maybe, it will give her time to say a real goodbye to her daughter before the end comes for all of them.

Zelena swallows, sends out one more burst of energy and then turns and rushes for the stairs. Slamming the door behind her, she uses another spell to seal the door, and then she's rushing down to where the others are.

To where their last stand is.

* * *

 _Now._

"I don't like this," Henry states loudly, his body drooping ever so slightly as he tries to compensate for his mothers' smaller size as well as the choppy erratic way that she is moving as the foursome (Emma had wanted to help her walk, but Regina had pushed her away, barely accepting Henry's help) trudges its way down the road.

The one leading back into Storybrooke, and hopefully to their family.

Assuming either one of those things still exist; so far, the familiar landmarks of the outskirts of the town seem intact, but they have yet to see any sign of life, any sign that the town has continued on without them here.

"Neither do I," Emma echoes, glancing over at Regina, her eyes sweeping past the numerous injuries showing on the Regina's face and body. Injuries that hadn't disappeared with the breaking of the Black Fairy's curse, but ones that Regina seems stubbornly dead-set on ignoring their existence. "We really need to –"

"Get me to the hospital. Yes, you two have said so repeatedly. But despite the fact that I look like I got the shit beaten out of me –" she laughs bitterly – "I'm not actually so damaged as to have lost my comprehension ability."

"Mom, that's not what –"

"Nevermind that. The more important right now is, we don't even know if there still is a hospital in this town," Regina snaps. "And even if there is one, I'm not spending my first hours as myself on my back once again."

Henry's eyes widen almost comically as he takes in the venom in his mother's voice, the loathing acidic edge of it unmistakable. A glance over at Emma, and he sees the same flash of worried recognition and understanding in her eyes. But then Regina is pushing them forward again, and there's little choice but to shove all the concern away.

To the side, where it can be examined and fretted over if there's time.

If there's still a world around them to hold them as they worry about one another.

Henry adjusts Regina again against him (curiously, she doesn't say anything about this, and he wonders if she's physically feeling much of anything right now – perhaps she's so determined and focused that she is now numb to how hurt her body is), glancing over at Lucy, who hasn't said a word since they started walking. She's looking in every direction, wide-eyed and taking it all in with wonder and amazement. Like this is an adventure. He remembers a boy who would have thought the same thing. That boy had survived Neverland and the Underworld.

And was undone by the loss of his home.

"Luce?" he asks.

"This is Storybrooke?" she says, like it's not quite believable even as she had always believed.

"This is Storybrooke," Emma tells her. Then she reaches out and catches Henry's arm. "Kid, wait."

Because there's a row of tall trees ahead of them, and then a sharp bend, and right around that bend is where the trees clear and the actual town typically comes into view, spreading out in front of them majestically.

A town built by a Queen.

Home.

"No more waiting," Regina insists, and she's shoving Henry off of her, her steps jerky but determined, her body held up by stubbornness. The harsh unavoidable reality is that she's going to collapse eventually; Emma knows, because there are physical limits that even the former Evil Queen must respect. Emma knows those limits a bit too well, her own back pinging, every inch forward sending sharp daggers throughout her badly damaged muscles.

They're both a mess, she muses, warriors crippled and shattered, and yet too stubborn to accept their states.

The more things change, perhaps the more they stay the same.

Regina continues forward, walking past the row of trees, Henry and Emma and Lucy right behind her as they step out and into…

…into the middle of town.

Storybrooke.

Granny's, City Hall, the Library…all there.

"We're home," Emma breathes, sounding amazed, relieved, and perhaps a little scared.

Delighted, and yet terrified of what this means.

"Maybe. Maybe…not. There's no one in the streets," Henry notes after a few seconds, frowning deeply. He feels Lucy's hand slip into his, a reminder that despite her seemingly never-ending optimism, she still is just a child.

He's right about the lack of people, of course; there are these buildings all around them, city street lights gleaming off of them, and there's a napkin blowing past, carried by the wind, and yet not a single sign of life around them.

"They have to be here," Emma insists, and it's not certainty but need.

Because a dead husband, nine years in prison, and Regina's entire obliteration of self has to mean…something.

It can't all have been for nothing.

But what if it is?

She looks over at Regina, sees her staring forward, her swollen eyes dull and tired.

Stubbornness had pushed her to where she's now standing (that she is at all), but now what is there?

Apparently, there's a step forward – which Regina takes.

Towards Granny's, one foot jerking outwards, her whole body looking like it's seizing, but she stays standing.

Emma reacts first, moving to her side, an arm back around her. "Regina," she whispers.

"They have to be here," she echoes, eyes glistening, desperation causing her to stammer. "Alive, Emma…"

For a moment, Emma doesn't respond, doesn't quite know how to respond – the panic in Regina's dark eyes is almost too much for her. Finally, she murmurs, "Okay, yeah," as her eyes find Henry's and then Lucy's.

The two who have believed, who maybe still believe more than anyone else.

Henry nods and says, his voice so quiet yet curiously forceful, "Let's find our family."

* * *

 _Before._

Zelena tries.

Oh, does she try.

Every bit of magic within her, until the point when she's maybe drawing from her own life force.

Tears running down her cheeks, her body desperately perhaps fatally fatigued, she fights back.

Snow and David, useless in a magical fight, cradle the two children against them, their bodies their last stand against an attack from Fiona should she – when she does, Snow thinks grimly – break past Zelena's defenses.

"You must know there's no point in this," Fiona tells her. "You've all already lost."

"Not as long as I draw breath," Zelena retorts.

"Oh, but death isn't a requirement of losing, dearest. Your beloved sister isn't dead, just…forever lost."

"Whatever you did to her –"

"I stole her mind away," Fiona replies, black dust skittering off of her. "I stole all of their minds. Like she once did to dear Snow and David here. But they forgave her. You think she'll forgive me?" Fiona laughs. "No, probably not."

"Where are they?" David demands. "Where's my daughter?"

"On the outside. Regina, Emma, and poor heartbroken Captain Hook. It's so delicious, really. Your entire family torn apart by sex and lust. I would never have seen that coming, I always thought you all too boring for it. But then, I suppose that's the risk you take when you bring the Evil Queen into your fold. And let her destroy you."

Zelena throws a blast of energy at her, the edges of it tinged bright green; she's weak, though, and it fizzles out almost before it goes to Fiona, particles shooting off in every direction, a small flicker of fire on the wallpaper.

"Oh, so we're done, then," Fiona says and then she throws her hand out, the black dust around flying out with her fingers, and then centering as if to attack Zelena. "Don't kill," she croons, and the dust obeys, charging Zelena and for a horrible few moments, surrounding her entirely. Robin screams out for her mother, the sound hysterical.

"Shh, baby, it's okay, everything is going to be okay," Snow soothes, her eyes on the black dust.

Beside her, David pulls Neal closer to his chest, his hand settling on his pistol on his belt. Logically, David knows that the bullets will do little to stop Fiona – unlike Regina who had least observed a basic wariness of the weaponry of this world, the Black Fairy seems to almost find them amusing – but it's the only defense he has left.

"Oh, it's not going to be okay, but...," Fiona taunts, and then the gun is flying across the room. "Well, I'm not going to kill you. Any of you. Even your precious loved ones are alive out in the real world. I suppose the question, then is, would death have been the mercy?" She grins, stepping closer, the black dust jumping off of Zelena and back towards her. The moment it does, Zelena lets out a terrible agonized whimper, staggers to a knee, and then collapses entirely, her skin a sickly ashy gray but her chest still rising and falling. Robin, too young to understand more than that her mother is hurt, pushes away from Snow and shoves herself up against her mother, arms tightly wrapped around her unconscious and limp frame. Snow shifts herself towards Zelena as well, for whatever good it will do.

She thinks it's what Regina would want her to do.

She and Zelena might not have a strong relationship of their own, but they are still family.

"Why?" Snow asks, after checking Zelena's pulse, and finding it there, if weak. "Why hurt all of us like this?"

"Because I want to, and because I can," Fiona replies, and then she's kneeling, her fingers cupping Snow's chin; David moves to intercede, but a wall of dust jumps in the way, forcing him backwards, his arms instinctively tightening around Neal's frame. "Existence is a funny thing. It's there or it's not and you never know when it will all just fade away. It can drive you a little bit mad, I think, to try so hard to hold onto everything and find…you can't."

Zelena whimpers from the ground, turning her head, a thin line of bright red coming from her nose.

"Please," Snow pleads. "Whatever you have against us, the children –"

"I'm the wrong person to ask for help on saving innocent children," she laughs. "But worry not, I won't take your babies from you. I want you to have to look into their eyes and see their fear every single time you…well, I think it's best for you to get to experience it. I really would hate to ruin the surprise for you." She waves her hand again, then, and suddenly all of the dust is jerking forward. "This town exists because of the Queen. Because of her heart, no matter how wasted it is as the weapon it was meant to be. But she's no longer the Queen or even Regina, and her heart is no longer within this town, so Storybrooke, well, what happens when there is no tether left, hmm?"

She stands up, arms out, and then the dust is spraying past her, covering the room and everyone within it.

It's darkly, even horribly familiar to Snow, a reminder of many years before when it'd been the Evil Queen standing over her. Snow can still remember the feel of David's dying body in her arms, the hope she'd been professing about Emma feeling far hollower than she would have ever admitted, Regina's madness-tinged laughter ringing in her ears as their entire world had been savagely ripped away from them, all of their hopes and dreams torn to shreds.

That story had worked out, eventually – Regina's heart and soul had been saved by family and love.

A kiss from a mother to a son had broken a curse, and allowed Regina the opportunity to heal and grow.

To become the heroic woman, sister, mother and friend she was always meant to be.

Somehow, Snow doesn't think that this story is going to go the same way.

* * *

 _Now._

All the windows of Granny's are covered in black soot. Thankfully, it looks old and mostly caked on and turned hard by age, as opposed to new and disturbingly fresh. Emma thinks that might mean that the Black Fairy hasn't been around much. On the other hand, it might also mean that there's nothing left alive in Storybrooke.

Nothing but dust, in all the terrible ways.

Regina stops in front of the door, staring at it for a moment between swollen and bruised eyes, her pained squint unmistakable as she considers her next move. Finally, clearly hesitantly, she reaches out to touch the doorknob.

"It'll be okay," Henry assures her, his hand settling on her elbow. She jerks in reaction to the touch, surprising both of them, especially considering how much Henry has touched her since she'd come back to herself. But perhaps, Emma muses, those touches had all been seen from in front of her whereas this one came from behind her.

Most likely, it'll be a long time before she's able to stop jumping at the unknown.

Emma knows that feeling entirely too well.

"I know," Regina murmurs, and the words sound strange because they sound like she's trying to be confident. Like she is willing herself to a place of strength and control. Like maybe she's trying to be who she is expected to be.

The Queen. The Mayor.

 _Regina-Fucking-Mills._

But it's not that easy, and Emma notices the glassiness of Regina's eyes and how –

The thought doesn't finish because suddenly the door is being thrown open; Emma's first thought is that while she'd been observing Regina, Regina had been yanking the door open, but one quick look at the other woman, and she sees that Regina's hand is frozen halfway between her body and the now opening door, which means –

"Emma!"

Her mother is smaller than her – significantly smaller, really – but in this moment, she might as well be twice as large as Emma is because that's the force that Snow uses to throw herself into Emma's body, arms around her. A moment later, there's a second body, and she feels the familiar cupping of a hand right behind her head, her father's strong body pulling his family unit together; absently, Emma feels a fourth, her baby brother, as well.

Her back screams in pain at the contact, her nerves exploding, but she ignores all of that, hugging back.

Wondering if this is a dream or a nightmare or something about to fall apart on her.

Oh, she'd had dreams of reuniting with her family during her days in prison. More than a few. She'd had so many dreams of their arms wrapped around her, of them telling her that now everything would be all right again.

She'd stopped believing that it could ever happen, ever be real, even inside the dream.

Along the way, she'd started assuming that no matter how good the dreams might have been, no matter how much hope they might have given her, it was all just a cruel lie being told by a heart that should know better.

She'd gotten around to believing that eventually, it'd all crumble into the darkness once again.

Almost always, it had – the dream evaporating and leaving her on a hard bed in a cold cell, shivering and wondering if the actual dream was that she'd ever had something – a family all of her own – to begin with.

But…this _feels_ real.

And then Snow asks, her hands lifting to Emma's face, "Are you…is it really you, Emma?"

Before she can reply, she hears, "Regina." There's a pause and then, "What the bloody hell happened to you?"

Turning in her parents unrelenting hold, she sees Zelena standing in the open doorway of the Diner, staring directly at her sister. It's then, as Emma is looking at Zelena, that she's able to clock the difference in her. Not her age – Zelena didn't seem to have aged any more than she or Regina has – but exhaustion. There's deep gray bags beneath her eyes, the blue there lighter than usual, tired and weary. Her clothes are familiar, but they hang on her. Not in the same way that Regina's hang off of her decimated frail frame, but in a way that screams Zelena's defeat.

Her resignation.

"Why are you wearing that hideous bathrobe?" Zelena continues, stepping closer to her. "Who hurt you?"

"It doesn't matter. None of it does. I'm alive. We all are, and we're here. We're…we're home," Regina tells her, her voice surprisingly steady considering how she looks (and how Emma suspects she actually is mentally too). "That is the only thing that matters." And then she's stumbling forward, and grabbing Zelena into her arms, and maybe both Emma and Henry let out a breath of relief because that has to be a good thing, right?

They watch as Zelena dips her head into Regina's shoulder, arms squeezing her baby sister tight, tears flowing down both of their cheeks. "I thought I'd never see you again," Zelena tells. "I thought you were gone."

Regina separates from Zelena, and shakes her head, forcing a broad smile onto her lips. "But I'm back now. That bitch lost. Again."

"Um, hi?" Lucy says quietly, reminding them of her presence. Regina offers Henry a grimacing apology for her words which he smiles at.

"Who are you?" Snow asks breathlessly, and then looks at the handsome young man next to her. "Henry?"

"Hi, Gram," he says, his face blossoming into a beautiful smile.

"Oh my God, you –"

"Grew up," he finishes. Then indicates towards Lucy. "This is my little girl. Lucy, this is my grandmother."

"Snow White," Lucy announces, eyes wide. Then looks at David. "Prince Charming."

"And I'm the bloody Wicked Witch," Zelena announces. Then she shakes her head, her hand slipping backwards, and immediately is taken by a shy little girl – Robin. "I don't understand. None of us have aged –"

"We were all caught in the curse," Emma explains. "Regina, and me and –" she stops abruptly, seeming to realize for the first time since they'd stepped across the line that she's going to have to tell them the truth about Hook.

About what she had done to him.

"Killian," Regina finishes for her, looking right at Snow and David as she speaks. "Not all of us made it back, unfortunately, and when the time comes, the Black Fairy will pay for that. But that time is not right now. Right now, all that matters is that we're here." Emma turns and looks at her, surprised by the strange steadiness she hears in the other woman's voice. You almost wouldn't know of the horrors that Regina had experienced were the sound of her the only guide. But it's not, and the marks up and down her body tell an entirely different story.

A desperately dark and ugly story, that Emma has pretty terrible idea that Regina is hiding from.

"We're here," Snow agrees. Then frowns, "But for how long?"

"What do you mean?" Emma queries. "Where –"

"Whatever you've been going through out there," David starts, his eyes flickering between the women.

"It hasn't been a picnic for us, either," Zelena finishes, her voice grim and tired. "She punished us, too."

* * *

 _Before._

There's just darkness in front of their eyes, like a blanket over them.

No awareness.

No consciousness.

Nothing.

And then it's lifted and they're in the front room of Regina's mansion, Neal and Robin both crying hysterically.

"How did we get here?" Snow asks, looking at David and Zelena.

"We're alive," is what David replies with, and then he's patting himself down. Once he's assured that he's in one piece, he picks up Neal, checks him over and then turns to his wife. Snow shakes him off, looking at Zelena.

Who looks sickly and drained, just as she had the last time they'd seen her.

Before the black dust had consumed them, and everything had gone dark and cold.

"How are we alive?" Zelena queries, asking the question they're all thinking. "We…"

"I don't know," Snow answers quickly. "But we are. Maybe…" she moves over to the window, wincing at the black soot that is covering it. A sweep of her hand on the inside of the pane clears the soot away, but not the dust on the outside. So, she turns and heads to the door, yanking it open and stepping out into the street. "This is home."

"It might look like home – it might even be home, but something is wrong," Zelena states the moment she joins them outside. "I can still feel her…everywhere. We're not back because…we're back because of her, I think."

"Why?" David demands. "Why would she bring us back?"

"To tell you the rules," they hear; as a group, they snap around, looking back towards the house where the voice is coming from. Where the Black Fairy is standing, too proper to be casual even as she turns the screws on them.

"Where were we before?" Snow asks, stepping towards her and slamming right into an invisible barrier. Zelena lifts her fingers to touch the magical energy there, sensing that it's an intentionally weak barrier, but equally realizing that her own magic feels weaker, more unstable than it had even when it had been almost entirely depleted.

"Nowhere," Fiona declares. "You simply ceased to exist. And now you're back. For a time, but who knows how long." She waves her hands around. "That's the delicious part. With your Queen outside of Storybrooke, and lost to even herself –" she laughs, sounding delighted. "So very lost right now. Beyond even my greatest dreams."

"If you hurt her," Zelena snarls.

"Not me, dearest. I just set up the board. Even I never saw it turning out this…deliciously."

"And Emma?"

"Oh, don't worry about her. It's really best not to since there's nothing you can do to help her. I wonder, though, who has the worst fate? Is it Regina? Emma? Or dear cuckolded Killian who, no…never mind. Let's focus on you, yes?" She swirls her hand, and dust jumps to her fingers. "This town is out of balance without Regina. She is its beating heart. It can't exist without her and…there is no Regina Mills, which means…you don't exist, either."

"Clearly, we do," David argues.

"We're between worlds," Zelena announces.

"We've been between realms before," Snow tells her.

"Not worlds or realms," Fiona corrects. "Realities. The one you go to when Storybrooke shifts out simply doesn't exist, so you don't. No dreams, no floating consciousness, nothing like the cursed dream world. Nothing at all."

"You can't hurt us there, then," Snow snaps back.

"She doesn't need to," Zelena tells her. "Because we'll have no control over when we come and go, will we?"

"Not a bit. One moment, you'll be walking your precious little girl to school and then…you'll be waking up in the middle of the road, and two months of nothing will have passed. You won't be able to plan or hope. Only know that you have no hope. There is no tomorrow for any of you. And there's absolutely nothing you do to stop this."

"Regina," Snow stammers.

"Is learning an invaluable lesson about believing that you've conquered your worst nightmares. Emma, too. They both thought themselves so strong and brave – both thought they'd survived the worst. Now…they know."

"You know, eventually, we will find a way to fight back," David tells her. "We always do."

Fiona throws back her head and laughs, the sound sharp enough to make the glass panes of the windows behind her shatter. "We'll see," she says, making it clear that she believes that this war is already over, and she's won.

The dust covers her a moment later, carrying her away with it.

"What do we do now?" Zelena asks, gathering Robin up into her arms, and kissing her forehead.

"Prepare," Snow answers. "For disappearing and for coming back."

* * *

 _Now._

"How many times?" Emma asks as they enter Granny's. All around them, they see other familiar faces, each of them worn and tired, not quite believing that they're actually seeing Regina and Emma in front of them. She watches as Zelena guides Regina to one of the booths, gently seating her into it, hovering so very close to her.

"Over the ten years?" Snow clarifies. Off Emma's nod, she looks over at Zelena, "One hundred and thirty-two?"

"Thirty-four," Zelena corrects. "One hundred and thirty-four. There were two times that we believe lasted only a day or so, but…I think those were the worst ones of all. We tried everything we could to stop it from happening, but nothing seemed to make a difference. We won't know if it worked this time –" she shakes her head.

"What was the longest amount of time you stayed here?" Henry asks, looking over at Regina. She's listening to the conversation for sure, but her body language is anxious and her eyes keep darting rapidly across the room. On occasion, they jump to the door of the diner, almost like she's expecting someone dangerous to walk through it.

Maybe someone like Trev.

But his mom isn't afraid of some shithead low-life like Trevor Carson, right?

His eyes fall to her hands, watching as they twist and turn, and settle against her belly.

"Two months," Leroy says from behind them; his sudden appearance causes both Emma and Regina to jump, Emma's movements more nuanced and tightening whereas Regina appears startled, perhaps even frightened.

"Regina?" Zelena asks, glaring at Leroy as he huffs angrily and saunters away. "Are you –"

"I'm fine," Regina cuts in abruptly, hand going from where it'd jumped to her heart back down to her belly. "I'm just tired, and… sore. We were…I was in a car accident before we got here –" she stares right at Emma and Henry, daring them to contest her words. "And I could really just use a night of sleep. Is…is my house still…here?"

"Mom, we need to get you back to –"

"No. My house. My bed. That's the only place I'm going." She stands, then, swaying slightly. To Emma, she says, "I'm sure your parents would love to spend some time with you, Miss Swan; we'll catch up in a few days."

"Oh," Emma replies, brow furrowing as the words "Miss Swan" slap against her. They don't feel like the teasing joke they'd become before the Black Fairy had turned their worlds upside down, but rather like a push-off, like intentional distance being created. She looks over at her mom and dad, seeing their hope and desire to do exactly that, but also their worry because it's now quite obvious to everyone that Regina isn't quite right. "I guess, yeah, but…Regina, Henry is right. With both our magic...offline until we can figure out what's going on with it, unless Zelena's magic is operational, you really need to have a doctor check you out."

"My magic is still working, but it's weak," Zelena tells her. "Still, I should be able to help a little. Rumple might be able to, as well."

"Rumple is still in town?" Regina asks, eyebrow up.

"Yeah. But his punishment was…different," David notes. "I think he somehow phased out with the town. We all disappeared into nothing, but he actually stayed within the town wherever it was, trapped in his house. Or maybe he chose to trap himself in there. Either way, he hasn't come out, and I don't think anyone else has gone in for years."

"Sadistic bitch," Regina growls.

"Understatement," Zelena tells her.

"Mom," Henry says, stepping between the two angry witches. "You mind if Lucy and I come back with you?"

"You…want to?" She glances down at Lucy – Lucy, who has been so quiet, merely watching everything around her.

A child managing to be an adult in the strangest of times.

"It's still my house, too, isn't it?"

Regina looks over at Emma for a moment before her eyes skitter away. "Of course." She puts her hands up, then, touching his face. "Yes, of course, it is. And we certainly have a lot of catching up to do. Once we've all slept."

"Yeah," he agrees, but he's frowning because something feels forced about her words – fake.

Words said just to be said, to sound like something someone who is healthy and strong would say.

"Good." She looks over at Snow and David. "I'm sorry," she tells them, her voice dull and emotionless even as the words she offers are heavy and even thunderous ones. "For everything you went through. Because of my poor choices. Because of my selfishness. I'm responsible for what everyone has endured – for what our children have endured." She smiles sadly over at Lucy, causing the girl to cock her head in confusion, not understanding the pain she's seeing there. "I'm responsible for what we've lost –"

"Regina," Emma starts. "This isn't –"

"I know…I know what you will all say, but…I'm not looking for a pep talk or a hope speech. I just…I'm sorry." She shifts slightly, refusing to look at Emma as she speaks, eyes instead still on David and Snow.

Snow shakes her head vehemently. "No, Regina, you're not to blame. You –"

"I am," she corrects, and she just turns and heads for the door, managing to stand tall and somehow look like she's in control of herself in spite of how physically and emotionally broken she actually is.

It's a wondrous if terrible show if ever there was one.

Emma turns to Henry and Zelena, knowing that both of them will be following behind Regina. Realizing that she wishes that she could, but silently acknowledging for a moment her own terrible issues.

Just how broken she actually is, too.

"Keep an eye on her," Emma says to them. "I think…I know she's not in a good place right now, and I don't think it would be in her best interest – anyone's – for her to be left…too alone with her thoughts."

"She's still Mom," Henry reminds her. "She won't let us hover."

"I don't mean hover. I just mean…don't let her push everyone is. She'll try. She's…she's trying." Emma offers a watery smile at that, all she can do not to let the torrent of emotions welling inside of her out.

"Is she lying about the car accident?" Zelena asks, but it's not really a question. "Because the marks on her don't…they look like someone to their fist to her face." She finishes the sentences with a growl.

"It's a story she's not ready to face," Emma tells her quietly. "She…we have a lot of those."

"We'll take care of her," Henry promises, taking Lucy's hand.

"We will," Zelena nods. "I'll do what I can with my magic to fix up her injuries."

"Should we be worried about the Black Fairy showing up to try to keep her curse going?" David asks.

"Probably eventually," Emma sighs. "But if she's been gone from Storybrooke awhile…and I haven't seen her in years, either, then there's a fair chance that she's…elsewhere. Maybe off fucking off in some other realm amusing herself or torturing someone else. We probably have time."

"That is assuming Regina's return really did end the phase-out," Zelena comments.

"The curse broke," Henry tells her. "She remembered who she actually is."

"She was someone else?" Snow queries.

"That's the story she's not ready to face," Emma answers gravely. "But yeah, and now she remembers. And, the… cops who were chasing us –" she makes a face, knowing that her answer will only drive more questions. "They weren't able to see us on this side of the line, but I think…I think it's likely that the Black Fairy's curse did break. Maybe if we can get Gold to stop hiding away, he can confirm it for us."

"Good luck at that," Zelena snarks.

"All we can do is have hope," Snow says quietly, but even she sounds uncertain, like even her ability to endlessly hope and have faith has been damaged by ten years of never being able to count on there being a tomorrow. Like maybe seeing your children losing hope is the kind of thing which can make you finally do it as well. And in this case, it hadn't just been one child who had been affected by this.

"What about you?" Henry asks. "Are you coming back with us?"

"I don't…I don't think your mom wants me around right now," Emma answers with a frown.

"Like you said, she's not in a good place right now," Henry reminds her.

"I know. I just…I think it's best I give her some space. And maybe, I could use it, too."

"You'll come back with us," Snow states. "We'll figure everything out."

"Yes, we will," David agrees. He manages a broad smile. "Our family is back together now."

"Most of it," Emma murmurs, looking down at her hand, where a wedding ring had once been.

Yes, her marriage had been effectively over before the Black Fairy had cast her terrible curse – she supposes that the true illusion of it had ended in that hotel room in Boston - but still…God.

Indeed, a story she is not quite ready to face. Not entirely, anyway.

"We'll make it through this," Snow assures her in that same less than confident tone, and David has a vague memory of her saying something in the moments before the curse. "Like we always do, Emma."

Emma's eyes flicker to the door, to where Regina had been just a few seconds ago.

And she says, "Yes," but thinks, "No, maybe not this time."

 **:D**


	13. Ten

_**A/N:** As always, gratitude for the patience._

 **Warnings: Allusions to domestic violence, actual violence, some language, mild self-harm, language and depression.**

 _As always, let me know your thoughts, and thank you!_

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

They've been dating for about six months when he proposes to her.

He asks her to remember the night they'd met, his arm pulled tightly around her as they walk down the street. She murmurs that she'd rather not, but he squeezes her closely to him, and says, "Can't be bad memories, baby. That's the night we first met."

He wants her to focus on how he'd come into her life that night, and she understands that, but he's really not what she remembers most no matter what he would like. No, what Elizabeth recalls most about that cold evening is the feel of alcohol in her blood and the fear which had rippled through her as she'd stood at the mouth of the alley, staring at the dead man lying there in a pool of blood.

She remembers feeling helpless and useless and pointless.

And somehow to blame.

But Trev squeezes her close again, and says, "I know, that was…hard. But remember what came after that?"

She does; he had taken her back to his place, and held her, kissing her hair and face. She'd slept with him that first night, desperate for anything that didn't taste and smell like death and decay. He had smelled like sweat and lust and desire, and for a woman who had seen nothing worth desiring when looking into the mirror, well, that had been … no, attractive isn't the right word … but it had been something better than all of the emptiness.

After all, he'd still wanted her after that night.

Even brought her breakfast in bed the next morning.

Six months had passed, and it'd been easy. Maybe that should have been the red light for her. It'd been too goddamned easy to fall into his protective arms and let him chase away all the shadows chasing after her.

All but the ones she hadn't been able to name.

The ones that came to her in her dreams, vibrant and strange. The castles rising high up into the air, the woman who looked like her sweeping down hallways, making an entrance that was strong and powerful. And oh, the strange little town.

The one that smells like fish and salt and rain.

But Bangor can smell like all of those things as well, and so she assumes it's just her memory going weird.

But sometimes…sometimes, it's hard to come out of the dreams. Sometimes she's standing in the middle of that town, and there are people looking at her, their mouths moving, their silent words pulling at her, pleading for her to "Stay" and "Don't leave us".

It makes no sense, and it frightens her terribly; she wakes with a cry, and Trev is always there. Arms wrapped tightly around her, lips and hands on her, promising her that he can keep her safe from everything bad.

"Good memories," he says again, as they stand at the mouth of that terrible alley. She stares ahead at the cement, thinking she can see bloodstains, but that has to be impossible, right? It'd been raining that night, and it's rained several dozen times since, which means any blood that had been there has to be long gone by now, right?

She blinks slowly, and swears she sees the man there, his head lolling towards her, his desperate blue eyes intensely staring at her.

But it's impossible for her to see him so clearly, she thinks, because it had been Trev, and not her, who stepped into the alley that night.

"You did this," he murmurs, lips bloody. "You just couldn't keep your hands off of her, could you?"

She stares back at him in confusion, trying somehow to make sense of his words…

Her who?

But then Trev is pulling her away, just like he did that night; only this time, he's walking her down the street, like it's a nice wonderful casual night.

Yet as they walk away, she can still feel those blue eyes still staring at her.

Couldn't keep her hands off of who?

"Lizzie," he says suddenly, jolting her back to reality; and then he's turning her towards him, and dropping to a knee. They're standing outside of his apartment, outside of the same place where he'd taken her that night. She can still remember his fingers – cold and heavy – as they'd undressed her. She'd felt trepidation, but also exhilaration. Because at least she'd been feeling something.

And that had to be better than nothing.

"I love you," Trev tells her.

"Trev –"

"You're my world," he tells her. "And I think I'm yours."

"Yes," she murmurs, and wonders why it sounds so strange to her ears.

She thinks that this must be her own strange fit with the world; that nothing ever seems to feel right to her. How _she_ doesn't seem right.

But he loves her, and that has to be right, right?

"I know you've spent a lot of time trying to find happiness, and wanting to be loved. Well I can give you both. And I promise you, baby, I will give you everything. The whole world. I'm going to take care of you. Keep you safe."

Something inside of her rails at his words, snaps at the idea that she needs to be kept safe.

She sees a weird flash of herself, angry and glaring.

But then Trev is reaching into his pocket and pulling out a little black box.

"Will you marry me?"

He opens the box, and there's a ring in it. It's cheap, and even ugly, but it's love.

He wants her.

No one else ever has.

"Yes," she says, because what else could she possibly say?

This is the dream, right? The hope for a better future, something more.

So, she plasters on a smile, tells herself that this is the beginning of something which will be wonderful, something that will make the broken little fragments which have been her life turn into whole. "Yes," Elizabeth forces out. "I'll marry you."

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

"You know," Henry says as they make their way up the old familiar walk to the house on Mifflin, his daughter sound asleep against his shoulder. She's a bit too big for this to be comfortable for either of them, but he thinks little of it, his hand against the back of her head, holding her gently to him. "This whole trip might have been easier if we'd not left my car."

"Your car?" Zelena asks, her own daughter snuggled up against her shoulder and her other her arm lightly around Regina's waist. Halfway through the quarter mile walk from the diner to the mansion (Zelena hadn't dared to use what little magic she has available to her to transport them, not when it could be better used for attempting to heal Regina), Regina had started to sag, the adrenaline finally fading away and leaving behind a tired, still very badly injured woman.

She'd let out a soft whimper, her hands going to her stomach, fingers gripping at the ugly terrycloth robe.

That's when Zelena first noticed the bruises on her throat, clear fingermarks there. She swears that no matter how long it takes, she will make whomever did this pay dearly for hurting Regina this way.

"We drove across the line in my Mustang," Henry says as they reach the door. He frowns at it. "I don't have a key."

Zelena flicks her wrist – easy magic, she reasons – and the latch releases, the door swinging inwards. "Not a problem." As she nudges them forward, she gently places her arm around Regina's waist, saying "Careful over the step." She smiles at the look of annoyance that flashes across Regina's features, thankful to see it. Turning to Henry, she asks, "You left your car behind?"

"It kind of just happened," he chuckles. Then, noticing how Zelena seems to be struggling with holding both Robin and Regina, the latter of whom has gone almost limp against her, Henry says, "Here, can you take Luce?"

"I –"

"I've got my mom. You take the girls."

"I can take care of my sister."

"I can take care of myself," Regina murmurs, but there's no passion in her words, just dull exhaustion.

"We know," Henry assures her, reaching out for her while Zelena gently eases Lucy off of his shoulder. She's a far smaller woman than he is a man, and so the sudden height change makes her sag, but she adjusts quickly.

She looks up at him, "I didn't want to get back in the car." She shakes her head. "There was blood all over it."

"Mom –"

"My blood." She turns her hand over and looks at it, spotting the dried blood still beneath her fingernails. The attack in the alley had happened less than twenty-fours ago, and she hasn't showered since then. A nurse had taken a washcloth to her face and cleaned her up as much as possible, but still…so much of Trev's rage persists.

As does so much of her pathetic simpering worthless weakness…

Her lip curls into a snarl, and then she's breaking away from both Henry and Zelena and stepping into her house. Her house, she tells herself. The one she created – this world is hers and…

It's rotten to the fucking core. Connected to her in a way that was used to hurt her family even worse.

It had ceased to exist because she – Regina Mills – had ceased to exist; and because of that, they had all suffered. Just as Emma and Hook had suffered because she hadn't been able to control her feelings.

A voice in the back of her mind – the Queen – insists sharply that that's not how things had gone down. Regina ignores her, though, tells her that neither she nor the other one lurking there are needed or wanted.

She turns from Henry and Zelena, moving into her study, the churning anger and self-loathing becoming her adrenaline.

"Give her a moment," Henry suggests, his voice quiet. "Let's get the girls into bed."

Zelena's eyes track back towards Regina, her reluctance apparent. But then she notices that Robin is looking at her, and remembers that for the last ten years, her baby girl has been living this nightmare too. In all that time, she has aged a little, and even that bit of her development is stunted due to the constant stuttering starts and stops.

Because every time that they dared to start something new, they would be gone and then back, only to realize that they'd never get to finish it.

"All right, then," Zelena murmurs, and she's handing Lucy back to Henry; were the little (not so little) girl awake, she'd probably protest being traded back and forth between her grand-aunt and father like a sack of flour, but thankfully, she's not. The two of them move up the stairs, towards rooms they both know all too well.

Zelena and Robin have been living here when there was a Storybrooke to live in so Zelena puts her daughter down into her bed, kisses her on the forehead and murmurs, "I'll see you in the morning, my perfect little one."

She doesn't mention that she's been saying this every night that she's turned off the lights for Robin.

Sometimes there'd been a morning…and sometimes there hadn't been.

She watches her daughter for a few more moments, and then steps out into the hallway, turning to the left to watch Henry in his old bedroom, sitting over a now-awake Lucy, talking to her quietly, too quietly to hear.

Zelena considers waiting for him, but then looks down over the rail, towards the study.

Towards Regina, and the injuries Zelena can still see even when Regina isn't sitting directly in front of her.

She turns from the hallway, and makes her way down the stairs and into the study, not one bit surprised to see Regina standing by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey (all the way to the top) between her palms. Her eyes dull yet somehow weirdly focused, Regina is staring at the fireplace, like she thinks that her force of will can cause flames to spout.

"I've got it," Zelena says quietly, a flick of her hand and there's flames jumping up off the dry logs.

Not the best wood, certainly, but it will do; after all, what around here is the best it has ever been, anyway?

"I wasn't using magic," Regina tells her, sounding very much like she's guilty of something. "Just looking at it."

"Right." Zelena forces a smile, and then moves closer. "Why don't you…sit back a bit. Try to get comfortable."

"Comfortable," Regina snorts, her derision sounding like self-loathing made solid; it sends a chill through Zelena.

"Regina, sit. Please," she pleads, reaching out for her sister, but pulling up just short of touching her. There's an unmistakably odd energy surrounding Regina right now, dark and hostile. It doesn't necessarily feel…intentional, but it's there all the same. Needing something – anything – to do with her hands, Zelena motions towards couch, just barely stopping herself from brushing the dust off of the cushion. It's a bizarre compulsion for a woman who has never felt an especially strong kinship towards cleaning or anything of the sort, but she imagines it's about Regina, anyway.

And wanting her to be free of everything that the Black Fairy's dust had created for them.

Wanting all of them to be free of that.

Nightmares and all.

"Sit, right," Regina echoes, blinking rapidly as she steps awkwardly backwards, her damaged body giving her a strange, not at all welcomed, resemblance to a half-broken marionette hanging off its keeper's strings.

Frowning deeply at this thought, Zelena watches as Regina slowly lowers herself on the couch, as seemingly ignorant of the black and brown dust covering the cushions as Zelena is aware of it. "Okay," Zelena says gently. "I'm going to try to…heal what I can." She offers something of a sad smile. "My magic isn't quite what it was –"

"It's still better than mine. Better than me," Regina cuts in, her voice dull. Their eyes meet and she elaborates. "My magic is broken. She flicks her hand, and then almost immediately doubles over, tears rushing to her eyes.

"Don't do that!" Zelena demands.

Sharply enough to make Regina visibly flinch, her arms rushing to surround her and even protect herself.

Forcibly softening her voice (and trying to do the same with her body language, but being far less successful due to her own fear for her sister), Zelena says, "Maybe…maybe let's talk to Rumple before you try using your magic again, all right? There's no reason to…hurt yourself. I can…I can help with this. Enough to heal you."

"Heal me," Regina murmurs. And then laughs. "Yes, heal me. Make everything better. Can you do that?"

It's not the answer Zelena had been expecting at all, and she finds herself thrown enough to be uncertain. But then, realizing that one of them has to be strong enough for this, she slides her hands forward and places them on Regina's, squeezing both of them lightly. "I can…I'm going to let my magic touch you. See what all is hurt."

"Your eyes should be able to do that."

"We both know that's not true," Zelena replies, finding Regina's eyes enough to make it clear that she knows just how hurt Regina actually is – and not just on a physical level. "You remember how it…tends to tickle a little."

"I remember that it feels like something is digging under your skin…like rotten maggots, yes. Go ahead."

"Rotten maggots; wonderful visual," Zelena sighs, choosing not to argue with Regina. Her own experience with this kind of magic is that it's somewhere between weirdly unpleasant and oddly disquieting, but bugs beneath the skin? Not so much. She takes her hands off of Regina's, and then starts slowly guiding them along the length of her sister's body, wincing as some of Regina's pain flickers in at her through the link. She can feel the resistance, feel the way Regina is trying to force herself to internalize, but there's far too much pain and some of it bleeding through.

At one point, she brings her hands to Regina's face, hovering them just over her cheeks, both looking at and desperately trying not to look at the massive bruising there. The clear indication of fingermarks on her neck.

Regina says, "Do you have a good picture now? See how _weak_ I am now?"

"You're not weak," Zelena protests. "Just hurt." She nods. "But…I see."

"Then fix me," Regina asks, and for a moment, her chin wobbles, and she doesn't at all seem like a woman who has, due to various curses and multiple realms, lived almost eight decades of life. No, she seems almost young.

Almost innocent.

But none of them are.

Still, Zelena finds that she can't deny Regina's eyes, can't deny the desperate needy hope she sees there.

"I'll try," she promises, and thinks she means both the physical and the emotional.

All the while knowing deep down that she's not capable of truly fixing either one of those things.

"I have to…I have to touch you now, Regina. Can I…can I?" It's somewhat strange for her to be asking permission – she and Regina have always touched each other freely, and just an hour ago, she'd had her arm wrapped around her sister as she'd helped her back to the house – but seeing how off Regina is now, it feels…also necessary.

Even mandatory.

"Do what you have to do."

"Okay." She slides her hands first, starting at Regina's midsection and focusing on her ribs. Bones are hard to heal, and perhaps she would be smarter to worry about muscle and skin, but the broken bones are where most of the pain is coming from. Bruises will fade within a few days (though she means to take care of the fingerprints), but ribs take forever to heal. It's a poor use of what little magic she has, and she thinks that were Regina fully in charge of her thoughts and thinking, she'd be the first one to tell Zelena to try to do a lot with the little that she has.

But Regina is just staring at her blankly, hopeful in a desperate broken kind of way.

Silently pleading for anything to make even a little bit of this a little better.

So Zelena thinks "heal" and lets her magic jump off of her and into Regina.

Almost thirty seconds pass before Regina says anything, and that's strange because she should have been feeling the sensations of the magic almost immediately (Zelena thinks about the stories she'd heard about Regina and Mother – ones she'd waved off when her thoughts had only been focused on her envious pursuit for Regina's life; the stories of hushed tales about all sorts of magical abuse which the Young Queen had once suffered, ones that Zelena thinks about now as she sees Regina staring straight ahead). When Regina finally does make a sound, it's a gasp of pain, her fingers grabbing at the arm of the couch, eyes wide with alarm. "Stop," she pleads. "Stop!"

Zelena pulls back immediately. "I'm sorry," she tells her. "You know how healing magic is –"

"I can't be fixed," Regina replies, and it's both a nonsequitar and the easiest line of logic to follow.

"Regina –"

"Sleep. I need…I need sleep. Everything will be better in the morning." She starts to stand, wobbling in place.

"We're not done," Zelena pleads. "At least…please let me help. I won't…I'll leave the bones alone."

"Bones?"

"They're broken," Zelena tells her gently, taking her hand and guiding her back down. "I know healing bones can be uncomfortable. If you don't want me to…at least let me help you with the rest of the pain you're in. I can help."

Regina turns her head and looks at her, seeming confused. "Why would you?"

"What – you're my sister."

"I'm the reason you've spent the last decade…" she shakes her head. "You haven't seen your daughter grow up."

"No," Zelena shakes her head, her lip curling in anger. "I've spent most of my life blaming the wrong people for every shitty thing that has ever happened to me. And where has it gotten me? No. The only person to blame is that dirty bitch who cast the curse. And she will pay for this. For what she took from all of us. Including you."

"If you say so," Regina murmurs, and then she's falling back to the couch, her eyes growing glassy again.

Voices ringing in her mind.

The Queen and Elizabeth, both of them at war about how she should proceed from here.

Stand tall once again and invite in more pain or step back and try to allow everything simply go past her.

Stand up and get knocked down once again or drop to her knees where the fall is a much shorter one.

Zelena's hands rest on hers again, gentle and kind, even reverent as they settle upon her face. Magic leaps up from them, and this time it feels warm. Still like something is crawling just beneath her skin, but it's not agonizing.

Her face goes from feeling too heavy and tight to feeling the tension dissipating.

"The bruises –"

"Gone," Zelena says quietly, and brings her hands up to around Regina's throat, allowing her to feel the smooth skin, the lack of swelling from Trev's fingers. Then, gently "Let's get you into bed. You need rest."

Regina looks up at her, says in a tone meant to be wry, "I'm the older sister."

"You're _my_ sister," Zelena repeats. "And you need rest." She extends an arm, and then she's helping Regina up, and moving her towards the stairs. "You have a lot of stories to tell me. About what happened to you and Emma."

"Nothing good," Regina replies, and then for half a moment, allows her head to settle on Zelina's shoulder.

Allows herself just a moment of comfort.

Just a single quiet peaceful moment where the gnawing self-loathing deep within her heart isn't allowed to stop her from receiving affection from someone who wants to give it for no other reason than because she needs it.

The moment doesn't last, of course; her thoughts start turning and whirling, and she thinks about a hotel room in Boston and thinks about Emma and Hook and fighting with Hook at the town-line and…she thinks about his eyes.

Both that day at the line and then later when he'd been dying.

No, she hadn't really seen his eyes that day, but she recalls them all the same.

She thinks about Elizabeth and Trev and how many times she'd been on her goddamned –

"Regina," Zelena says gently. "Step."

She looks down and sees that they've reached the stairs. Zelena's arm is still around her, and she's still mostly leaning into her. Safe and secure in her sister's protective arms.

She breaks away from Zelena. "I can do this myself."

"But you don't have to," Zelena tells her, desperation in her tone.

Because there's no need for Regina's stubbornness right now.

No need for this show of independence. But then it's not independence, Zelena thinks, and watches as her sister drags her wounded body up the stairs. Her head held high like her pride is all she has left.

She offers no response, just forces herself onwards, like the strength of her will is enough to make it so.

It's a lie – an illusion.

All illusions shatter eventually.

And when you're three people, well, perhaps the shattering is all the more spectacular.

* * *

 ** _Before._**

Her first severe beating happens about six months into her prison sentence.

She thinks she should be thankful that it hadn't happened sooner, but it's hard to feel much gratitude with a broken collarbone and a rather agonizing inability to actually breathe without wanting to pass out.

Her attackers are three young women from one of the gangs – she's clocked the four different gangs around the prison just so she understands the dynamics, but up until today, she has mostly managed to stay clear of them all.

These ladies come looking for her; she holds up her hands and says that she wants no trouble from them.

One of them laughs and says just before she attacks, "It ain't about you."

Emma can fight off one attacker, maybe even two – she's not quite as polished or as spry as she'd been during her bounty hunter days; but she still knows how to ebb and tide in a fight, and so she manages to hold her own.

Until the third woman jumps in, and then she's down and they're punching and kicking.

The one who'd hit her first – her name is Casey – bends over her. "Fiona told us to say hi. She hopes you're enjoying your stay with us." She shakes her head, like the message is kind of crazy, but doesn't seem terribly bothered by it.

She's likely getting paid well – in cash or contraband; hard to care when you're trying not to die. But then, their game isn't to kill her – just hurt her.

They leave her on the ground, gasping for air. Wondering how her life had come to this.

A year ago, she'd been married and…well, no not quite happy, but pretending pretty effectively. And then there'd been Boston and that stupid crate. Two Pandora's boxes which she never should have opened. One had exposed the lie of her happy new beginning, the other had let a terrible evil back into the world. And now…now, Killian is dead, Regina is lost somewhere and she has no idea about the rest of her family.

She only knows that all of this is her fault.

These thoughts pound at her as she lay on the ground, waiting in agony for medical assistance that seems to take forever to come. But her survival instinct starts to kick in and pushes those thoughts away; she knows that it will only get worse from here, and she needs her wits about her. So as she recovers, she starts anticipating, preparing.

There are consequences to that, and she spends thirty days in solitary when she's found with a sharpened fork. Yet her time in solitary also brought a revelation of sorts to her: if she can stay in the darkness, she can stay free of the attacks. Oh, but that's cowardice, and Emma Swan refuses to hide away. Just prepares better, watches her back more.

It works and it doesn't, and long stretches pass without much of a problem beyond being lonely and sad.

Such is her life, and this is nothing new, and it's not like the happiness was ever real.

Yet it kind of was, her mind argues as she stares up at the ceiling, listening to her cellmate snore. Even without Killian, even moving that aside, she still had her son and her parents and…she had Regina.

Which okay, was part of the problem. Still is, clearly, because it's Regina she misses more than Killian.

Killian, she grieves for, and has guilt beyond words. Heartbreak and sadness and just so much anger.

At him and for him, and it's all tangled up together.

Regina, though, she misses her presence.

Lifted eyebrow, head shaking, and a sighed out in exasperation, "Swan." Just seconds before she inevitably gave in to whatever it was Emma wanted her to give in to.

Maybe she shouldn't have, though…maybe they'd all be better off if …

Her roommate falls out of bed, and awakens sharply, in a defensive posture, cursing. Emma says, "Shh, it's just a nightmare. Go back to sleep. It'll be better in the morning."

God, what a fucking lie; it's never getting better.

She figures that out rather clearly about seven years into her stay when the attack goes from roughing her up to – she's pretty damned sure – trying to kill her.

It's her fault (seems like most things are).

Just when it seemed like things couldn't get worse, Fiona comes to see her, cheerful and petty. Like maybe seeing Emma miserable will make her day better.

"Your family is still doing…terribly," she tells Emma as she leans over the table.

"And yet you're not happy," Emma replies. "Why's that? Revenge not quite what it's cracked up to be."

"Oh, it's gone…better than I could have ever imagined. But as it turns out, despair is rather dull."

"Give me time," Emma promises her. "I'll make your life a lot more interesting. And then I'll end it."

"Somehow, dearest, I don't see that happening."

"You've been kicking my ass for years. Where has it gotten you?"

"Watching you turn circles in your little cage, knowing that your family on the outside is suffering terribly."

"Still alive," Emma corrects. "You woke me up." She nods. "Good. Gives me time to plan destroying you."

She expects Fiona to volley back, to laugh and dare her to try, but instead, she's standing up. "You never could leave well enough alone, could you, Savior? You should have left the Queen alone, and you should have left the dust alone, but you had to keep playing in sandboxes that didn't belong to you. You're still doing it now. Still thinking that you're the one in control. Where has that belief gotten you? Or anyone you love? Nowhere."

"They're out there," Emma tells her. "I will find them."

"Except for dear Captain Hook. He's ashes in a room somewhere. Thanks to you."

Emma just stares back at her. Then says again, quietly, "You will lose. If it takes me the rest of my life –"

"I can't lose," Fiona says simply, and then she's walking away, her strides long and angry.

Three days later, she's attacked in the exercise yard with hands and feet and metal pipes. A piece of wood punctures her side, just beneath a rib; she falls unconscious even as the beating continues. She's tucked inward, her back taking the brunt of it, bones splintering beneath savage strikes.

When she wakes up, she's in a hospital, feet chained down to the bed; but there's no need for restraints because she can't move. She's not paralyzed, and that's the good news; but she is terribly hurt, and the swelling is massive.

She heals slowly, painfully, and every night consists of her staring at the ceiling, thinking about how she got here. Thinking about how she's never going to win.

She's never going to save her family.

When she finally returns to the prison, she's slow and sore; but at least her attackers had been transferred to another prison. She expects more to come, but it doesn't – Fiona doesn't reappear again after that. Not that her life gets easier, but at least some sadistic fairy bitch isn't trying to kill her.

Her back improves as much as it's going to get, thanks to the little bit of therapy she's able to utilize in prison (it's enough to keep her moving; a mostly immobile prisoner is a headache, and so better to pay for something than to have to deal with a lot more), and the painkillers that she's allowed to take (and the ones she buys from others when the pain is too much, and she is willing to allow herself to be weak and frail and human). But, she knows that eventually, she'll be too slow to fight back.

Because it's not just Fiona and her goons who'd wanted her on her knees.

She makes use of solitary to figure out her next steps; thinking about parole and what she can do to take back some control. Become a model prisoner. Stay out of trouble and away from people as much as she can, rarely leaving her cell unless she must.

Spending every night saying to herself over and over, "I am Emma Swan, I am Emma Swan".

Sometimes wondering – as she hears soft agonized whimpering from down the hall as someone's nightmares become too much, and they can't stop themselves from crying out – what being Emma Swan actually means.

Savior?

Daughter?

Wife?

Mother?

Best friend and lover?

All true, she thinks, and then adds one more as the whimpering falls quiet, and there's just silence around her.

 _Failure._

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

Her parents feed her.

After putting Neal (who is older than he'd been before, but not nearly as much as he should be) to bed (he goes down relatively easily, sleepily hugging his sister goodnight, like it hasn't been years since he's last seen her, but rather just a few days, and she wonders if it feels to him as though it has only been), the first thing that they do is to ask her if she's hungry.

Even after all that time away in the…whatever realm that Snow and David and the rest of Storybrooke had been stuck in, the pantry in the loft is bizarrely fully stocked ("the one good thing about…what happened to us," Snow muses with a shake of her head). They offer her everything from pancakes ("no!" Emma says quickly, and then blushes, because her old ghosts and skeletons really shouldn't impact even the food she tries to eat) to a full-on steak. Eventually, they settle for spaghetti, even though Emma tells them both that it's more than she needs.

"We know," David assures her. "We just…we missed you. I mean…when we knew you were…gone."

Emma tilts her head. "In that other place, you had no awareness at all?"

"None," Snow replies. "We were here, and then…we were somewhere else in town, aware that time had passed. There was this general…feeling?" She looks over at husband as if to confirm that he's thinking the same thing; he nods grimly at her, and she continues. "Of being…dirty? And just…off balance. Like everything was out of place. And I guess considering how we kept coming and going, we were. We just never knew when it would happen."

"I'm sorry," Emma tells her. "If we'd only –"

"What's done is done," David says quickly, depositing a heaping plate of spaghetti in front of her, the sauce gathered in the center just like she likes it. "And we don't blame you or Regina or –" he smiles sadly at her.

"Killian," she finishes. "I know…you want to know, but I'm not…" she trails off, looking down at the food.

"You're not ready," Snow nods. "And that's okay; we will be here when you are, Emma."

"But what if you're not? What if you disappear again, and it's just…those of us who came back."

"We have to have faith it'll be different," David tells her. "It's all we can do."

"And I believe that with you and Regina being back, even if we did go again, you'd find a way to fix it."

"Don't be so sure," Emma tells her. "Neither one of us is quite the person we were a decade ago."

"And Henry?" David prompts

"Not the boy he was. He's a man now. A father. A good one. Though, I think he'd disagree with that." She shifts in the chair, trying to re-balance enough of her body to keep her back from tightening up and failing as usual.

She thinks that after all these years of dealing with this back injury, she'd know when she'd reached the wall. But stubbornness is something bred into her by DNA and ground into her by life; it is simply who she is.

"We're hardest on ourselves," Snow notes, frowning as she observes Emma's obvious physical agitation.

"Yeah," Emma agrees as she stands up. "Look, I appreciate dinner, but it's been a long day and I'm tired."

"Your bed should still be made. No one has slept in it…for a while," her mother answers. "And I'm sure there's still something to wear in the closet. If there isn't, yell down and you can wear something of mine for the night.

"Thanks," Emma nods. She starts to walk away from them, and then turns, moving far faster than her body wants her to go; both of her arms are spread out, and her parents moving into them like they understand just what she needs. Like maybe they need it, too. It's a Charming thing, even if it's not an Emma thing, but it's so very wanted.

She hugs them tight, and they hug her even tighter, and she allows herself to breathe for just a moment. She thinks the oxygen will catch soon, and the fear and doubts and grinding guilt will return but for now…For now, it's just their strong arms, and David's lips against her hair, and Snow's head against her shoulder.

"You're home," Snow assures her.

"However badly you or Regina have been hurt, we will help you to get through this," David adds on, kissing the top of her hair.

"As a family," Snow states.

They're good words – not new ones, Snow and David had said as much earlier; it's what they know – but words that her damaged soul doubts on every level. And yet she clings to them as much as she clings to her parents.

Like the words are her salvation.

Slowly, she peels away, murmurs a soft good night even though she doesn't really want to leave them (her back hurts so horribly, and she needs to scream into a pillow or find some aspirin or just turn the hot water onto her back that is intense enough to make all the nerves go numb; anything, really) and gingerly makes her way upstairs.

To the loft she'd lived in for her first several years here in Storybrooke. Until she'd become the Dark One and bought that creepy fucking house. And decided to build a broken love story upon it.

She looks around the room, seeing memories on every wall, seeing images of years long past.

Her eyes close for a moment, and she breathes it in, telling herself to indulge in these memories that feel so good. Memories that can maybe help sweep away the nightmares that take her back to that cell and those walls, and fists and feet upon her body. The sharp piece of wood beneath her ribs just as a foot violently cracked down across her back.

Emma lets out a ragged breath, touches the wall for a moment, and forces herself down onto her old bed.

She thinks that the familiarity of it should feel like heaven to her. Nine years of sleeping on a prison mattress and the last several weeks of sleeping on a guest bed (not horrible, but too hard to be comfortable), this has to be better. Bizarrely, though, it's too soft and too comfortable, and she thinks she must be losing her mind.

Maybe she is, she muses, as she feels bone-chillingly cold, her skin prickling even though the heat in the loft is on.

Yet, despite all that they have been through, there's an odd sense of normalcy all around her. Like she and Regina and Henry haven't just returned from a nightmare. Like their rest of their family hadn't been living (and not living) a nightmare of their own.

The loft is warm, and even smells of cinnamon, and of course spaghetti sauce. But it's wrong, it's all wrong, and her skin prickles almost painfully and –

"Emma, breathe," she hears, the voice soft and kind. She looks up towards the doorway and sees her mother there, a cup of cocoa in her hands, the whipped cream on it piled high enough for Emma to see the cinnamon sprinkles.

 _Too normal, too normal, too normal…_

Her hand jumps to her chest, over her heart as the panic rises in her.

Snow's next to her in less than three seconds, the cup of cocoa on the nightstand, a hand on her back, and her cheek gently pressed up against Emma's cheek. "Breathe," she says again, her voice so very gentle. "Just breathe."

"Mom –"

"We have all been through so much, my sweet girl," she says. "And we all hurt so terribly." She moves slightly away from Emma, then turns back with three aspirin in her hand. "You're hurting terribly."

"I tried –"

"To hide how much you're hurting. Emma, I'm your mother." She puts the pills in Emma's hand. "We will see a doctor in the morning." She tilts her head. "When you're ready. I don't know what you've been through, but I'm guessing that neither you nor Regina have exactly been in charge of your own lives for the last decade. Am I right?"

"Neither one of us have a good story to tell."

"No," Snow sighs, and then she's stands up and disappears into the bathroom. She returns with a Dixie cup full of water and hands it to Emma. "It's strange trying to think about which of us had it the worst, but I think…I think maybe we all suffered in some…perfect way. Whatever she took from you, from Regina, from all of us…"

"It was too much," Emma tells her, swallowing back the pills and then chasing them with water.

"But we can still get it back."

"I'm not sure we can," Emma says sadly. "We lost ten years with Henry. We lost the birth of his baby girl. He lost his own wife during that time. We never knew her. We don't know anything about her. When Regina realizes that, when she really understands how much of Henry's life she lost to Elizabeth Carson –" she stops, swallowing hard.

"Elizabeth Carson?"

"We were other people," Emma tells her.

Snow frowns, turning these words over in her mind, thinking of Mary Margaret and the weird daze of those years. "The Black Fairy told us all that you were both lost. She said she stole your minds away. Cursed memories?"

"Yeah. Different people. Not…schoolteachers and animal shelter workers." She looks up at her mother. "What Regina did to you…what she did to everyone in this town, it was awful. But she could have done far worse."

"The Black Fairy did worse."

"Yes."

"Baby," Snow murmurs, and then her arms are sliding around Emma.

A moment passes, and then another, and Emma asks, "You're not going to ask for more?"

"No more than you're willing to give," Snow replies. "We have _all_ given too much."

"Mom –"

"And it's still not your fault. I know you and I know Regina, and those words mean nothing to either one of you, and I know that both of you have…a journey ahead of you to forgive yourselves." She smiles sadly at that, thinking of how many times Emma and Regina have been forced along such a path, losing pieces of themselves each time.

"I don't know how," Emma admits.

"You don't have to know how tonight," Snow tells her. "You just need to rest."

"And if you're gone in the morning? If this is all just…a dream."

"Then we'll be back. We always come back eventually."

"How can you continue to have hope even after living this way for the last…ten years?"

"Because you're here now," Snow answers. "And because downstairs are your father and your baby brother. And Neal still sleeps like he believes in everything good. I might worry, and your father might worry, but we have survived every nightmare in our lives by refusing to give up our faith. I know you think that it's silly –"

"I do," Emma nods. "But please don't give it up."

"I won't," Snow promises, leaning in and hugging her again. Then, softly, "Sleep. Worry about tomorrow…then."

Emma holds onto her for a few long moments, allowing tears to drip onto her mothers' shoulder. Allowing warmth and love she's not sure she deserves. Knows that she doesn't.

Not after everything she'd done and all the loved ones whom she'd devastated.

Still, she holds on until she's strong enough to let go.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

"Henry?" she calls out, rushing after him. She's been yelling his name for the last several minutes, but he either hasn't heard her or is ignoring her. She assumes it has to be the first one because they've had a thing going…

Well, at least Alicia thought that they did; a few days ago, instead of joining her and her friends down in the quad, he'd just disappeared, leaving only a brief note behind saying, "Going home for a couple of days."

It had seemed weird, but sometimes Henry is weird, she thinks. Still, this is beyond weird. This is wrong.

"Henry!"

He snaps around, looking at her with wide shell-shocked eyes. He seems exhausted and upset, and she wonders if he's on something, strung out or perhaps coming down from something. He looks at her wildly, not understanding.

"Henry," Alicia soothes, stepping towards him. She thinks maybe she should turn the other way – they're just starting their thing, and if he's a drug addict, it's the last thing she needs. But something tells her this is more.

Something tells her that Henry is worth the risk.

"What's going on?" she asks. "Where did you go?"

"Home," he whispers. "But there's no home to go to."

"What do you mean?"

"I –" Tears start rolling down his cheeks.

"Okay," she says. "Okay. Let's get you upstairs. You look…torn up. You need sleep."

"I don't understand."

"I know," she tells him, even though she doesn't. He's not really listening, anyway. She takes him by the arm, a hand settling low on his back and gently guides him towards the stairs and up towards his dorm room.

Thankfully, his roommate is gone, and she's able to get Henry to settle onto his bed. A hand to his forehead, and she feels warmth there, but not quite a fever. He mumbles something about his mothers being gone, and how they can't possibly be gone, and how this can't be happening. She responds by pulling the blanket up and over him.

It doesn't take long after that, and then he's sleeping.

Restless, and tossing.

She looks around his room, feeling helpless as to what else to do. This isn't her first time in here – not only are she and Henry Algebra 2 study partners, but they really have been getting a whole lot closer as of late. She knows that he's been wanting to ask her out. She's been waiting for it to happen (and thinking that she'll have to be the one asking if he continues being so nervous about actually doing it), and looking forward to it when it finally happens.

This weird turn…isn't what she'd expected. Again, she's struck with the thought that she should leave, but her heart is saying stay. She sits down next to his bed, looking down and sees a massive book lying there.

 _Once Upon A Time._

She opens it and begins flicking through the pages, frowning at names she's heard before – Regina, Emma…

She looks down at the drawings, and then turns and looks over towards his desk to a family photo – a much younger version of Henry standing between two women, a brunette and a blonde, both of them unfairly attractive.

The brunette, Alicia thinks, looks a whole lot like this Evil Queen.

And the blonde? Looks like the woman dancing with the guy called Captain Hook in this other photo.

Which…weird.

Henry whimpers, and turns. "Mom," he says.

Alicia picks up the picture, staring at it, feeling like this picture is familiar in some kind of very strange way.

But that's absurd, of course. She thinks there's a simple answer for all of this – he'd written this book and written his mothers into it. Yeah, it makes sense, even if it's a bit weird that his moms aren't together in the book that he's written. But it makes sense, right? Sure, and yet instinctively, Alicia knows that that's not the truth here.

Fingers across the gold embossed letters, she's struck by something powerful.

Almost even magical.

She flips the book open, and begins to read. She's still reading the book when Henry wakes, his face paling when he sees it.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "You shouldn't –"

"Henry, what is this?"

He shakes his head. "You should go," he tells her. "This is nothing that you want to be involved in."

"You're right," she agrees. "Because you're either a lunatic or a liar."

"I'm neither," he replies sadly. "I'm a writer. But I didn't write this story. It…just happened."

"What does that mean? Happened? Why do the pictures look just like your moms?" she asks, turning around and gesturing over towards the family photograph, her eyes fixed on his youthful familiar face.

"I can't do this," he tells her. "I can't."

"Okay," she agrees. "You don't owe me anything, and I don't owe you anything."

He nods, his shoulders drooped, eyes filled with tears again.

She touches his shoulder. "This is something I'll never believe, isn't it?"

"It doesn't matter," he tells her. "It's all gone, anyway."

"Henry –"

He looks up at her and meets her eyes, his own green ones suddenly intense. "Do you believe in magic?"

She's about to say no of course not, but then she stops; because a few years ago, she'd been in New York City with her father for the day, and they'd been wandering by a fountain when –

Her eyes widen. She hasn't thought much of that day in years. Because it _had_ been unbelievable. As unbelievable as this book.

That day, she'd stood there watching while a boy had convinced cynical New Yorkers to have faith. She hadn't really looked at his face for more than a moment, but now she can see it clearly. And now she remembers the women standing next to him...

"You were in New York," she gasps. "The fountain?"

"You were there?"

"I…yes."

"Ain't fate a bitch," he laughs, sounding bewildered and angry and somehow awed all at once.

"I don't understand. What is this book?"

"My story," he tells her, taking it from her, opening it. "My family's story."

She lets that settle on her for a moment, every part of her insisting that this is madness.

Except for her heart.

A heart that remembers that day in New York, and has never really forgotten it. She thinks maybe she's always remembered Henry a little bit.

She sits down on the bed next to him, her hand slipping into his. "Tell me," she prompts.

"You'll think I'm insane."

"Maybe, but…so far, I'm still here."

He lifts his head and looks at her. "My name is Henry Mills. My grandparents are Prince Charming and Snow White. Their daughter is one of my mothers. My other mother is the Evil Queen. Everything in this book…happened."

"Jesus," she murmurs.

"You think I'm nuts."

"I think I'm nuts," Alicia chuckles.

"You really should go. Whatever has happened…I might be next."

"If you want me to leave, I will."

He nods.

"But…I think I'd like to stay if you'll let me."

"Why?" he asks. "Why would you want to have anything to do with me…this is…batshit crazy?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "Because I remember that day in New York. I remember feeling warm and strong; like anything and everything was possible. I remember you even when I didn't. I think…I'm supposed to be here."

"You don't have to be if you don't want to be. I know too much about fate forcing us towards…awful things."

"I don't think you're awful," she tells him, and then she's leaning forward and hugging him tight.

He lets out a breath as she holds him, and then says, "They're gone. They're all gone."

"Your family."

He pulls back and looks at her, eyes red. "They weren't answering their cell phones, so I went home and…there was no home. Where it should have been…it was gone. But there was this feeling there…this…cold emptiness. I know that doesn't make sense, but something felt…evil and wrong when I was there. Like something terrible happened."

"Do you think they're still alive?" she asks, touching his face and making him look at her.

"I don't know," he admits. "I feel like I don't know…anything right now."

She takes the book from him, flips it open and points to a picture of Neverland. "This says Truest Believer."

"We're a long way from Neverland."

"We're not a long way from New York."

Their eyes meet again; after a moment, he nods his head. "I believe they're alive. Somewhere. Don't know where."

"Then you'll find them," Alicia promises him, squeezing his hand again. "Eventually, you _will_ find your family."

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

He wakes slowly, turning over in his bed, stretching his arm out for the other side.

She's been gone a long time now, but he still reaches for Alicia; he wonders if he always will. But he realizes almost immediately that this bed is smaller, and he doesn't feel a mattress under his arm. Eyes popping open, Henry looks around and sees that he's in his childhood bedroom.

No, that doesn't make any sense. He couldn't possibly be here unless –

His mind clicks over, and he remembers…

"Mom," he says, and then he's up and looking out the window, seeing the Clock tower right where it has always been. Then frowning because it's only seven in the morning, and it's borderline obscene to be awake right now.

Still, home wins out, and he's quickly organizing what he needs to do:

 _1\. Check on Lucy_

 _2\. Check on Mom (Emma)_

 _3\. Check on Mom (Regina)_

Standing and stretching, he makes sure he's decent and steps out of the bedroom, and heads down the hallway towards the guest bedrooms. There are two rooms down here, each of them large and handsomely decorated. At least, that's how they always had been when he was growing up. There's a third bedroom down in the basement.

As a teenager, he'd lobbied to move into it, but his mom muttered something about how this wasn't the _Brady Bunch_ , and that led to some kind of laughing argument between both of his moms, and he's said "forget it".

Zelena eventually ended up moving into that room instead.

Smiling as he thinks back on all of those weird memories, he reaches the door to the room where Lucy is sleeping, pushes the door open and moves towards the bed. As usual, she's sound asleep on her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow (Alicia always hated that, always worried that Lucy would one day suffocate herself).

He settles his hand on her back, feeling her breathing for a moment.

For a minute.

Finally, he adjusts the blankets and steps back into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind him. Their worlds are likely to get crazy soon enough, he might as well let her sleep in today.

He thinks maybe he should do the same for Emma – God knows she's likely exhausted. So he pulls out his cell phone and types **GOOD MORNING. WHEN YOU WAKE UP, GIVE ME A CALL.**

The phone rings five seconds later.

"Couldn't sleep," she says before he can ask.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asks, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

"A few hours. I'm good, Kid."

"Bullshit," he replies as he passes by Robin's room. He glances in, seeing the little girl (older than he remembers her, but still far too young after ten years) curled onto her side, reddish blonde curls going everywhere.

"I'm…good enough."

"How's your back?"

"Sore. But –"

"You lifted Mom up yesterday. Emma –"

"We had to get out there, Henry. There was only time for action."

"You hurt yourself."

"Story of my life."

"But we're home."

"Yeah, I guess we are." She lets out a breath, and he can't tell if she's relieved or tired. "How's Regina?"

"I was about to go check on her," he replies as he pushes the door to Regina's room open.

And finds the room empty.

"Kid?"

"She's already up," he says, starting back down the hallway. "I'm going to track her down."

"Yeah."

"You gonna stop by?"

There's a pause and then, "I think I probably shouldn't."

"Why?"

"Just…we're all settling in. Your mom has been through a lot. I'm sure she'd like some space."

"You think she's going to be upset at you now that she remembers who she is."

"She was upset at me when she was Elizabeth," Emma chuckles.

"Emma."

"Henry, I just…I want to be respectful, and give her some time to deal with all of this."

"This isn't respect or giving her time, Mom; this is fear."

"You don't understand," she says softly.

"Then help me understand. We're home. She's…Regina Mills again."

"And that carries a lot of baggage with it. Just like Emma Swan does. She needs space to breathe."

"She's not breathing; she's suffocating," he insists.

"Kid –"

"How much space, Emma? How much is too much?"

"I don't know. I just know that I owe her…some"

"This is the wrong way to go," he reiterates as he descends the stairs.

"Probably," she admits. "But I've pushed her towards enough awful things."

His heart stops for a moment, and then he whispers, "I doubt she thinks you're awful."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." She chuckles nervously, sadly. "Just…just take care of her."

"It's what family does," he reminds her. " _Our_ family. We take care of each other."

"I know. And we will. Talk to you later, Henry."

The phone disconnects then, leaving him standing in the foyer holding his cell. Frustrated and not a bit surprised by any of this. Well, except for what he sees when he looks into his mother's study. He thought that she maybe might be in there, holding a cup of coffee, getting her thoughts together, collecting herself to deal with the day ahead.

What he sees is something far…different.

"Hi," he says cautiously, his voice soft as he enters her office almost hesitantly. For all the days and years that he'd spent in here, either playing on the floor, doing homework on the other side of the desk, arguing with her, or just talking to her, it feels like enough history for a thousand life times has passed within this room. And it's still not enough to make this moment feel less heavy. Less like he's pulling a cart of stones up a muddy embankment.

"Hi," Regina replies, just as soft, but also sounding distant and distracted. Even though it's only seven in the morning, he sees that she's holding a tumbler of bourbon, filled nearly to the top. When she sees his eyes on the glass, she offers a wry smile and muses, "Turns out it always holds and waits. Ages. Like it's better after time."

"Mom –"

"Is your daughter still in bed?" she asks, and then laughs, the sound sharp in a way she most certainly hadn't intended. But she doesn't cringe as he does, merely lifts the glass to her lips and takes a bit swig of her drink.

"She's still sleeping," he replies. "You know, she doesn't understand any of this."

"Not sure any of us do," Regina responds, and then puts the glass down on the surface. She lifts it after a moment, frowning at the water ring – condensation from the bottom of the glass – that immediately gathered on the desk. She tilts her head, almost curious, eyes growing foggy. "The things you don't care about," she murmurs.

"Mom," Henry says again, and moves deeper into the office. He considers taking the glass away from her, but thinks she might not take that particularly well. Or maybe she won't react at all, he thinks, warily clocking her sluggish distracted behavior. "Talk to me. I know you're going through a lot right now, and I know –"

"I'm fine," Regina tells him. Then finally looks over at him, a strange uncomfortable smile on her unpainted lips as she tried to convince him. "I'm always fine. And…your aunt…she was able to heal up some of my…injuries."

"But not all."

"No, I still have my husband's hands on my body," she answers before taking another gulp of her bourbon.

He winces automatically, thrown by both the casual way she says that and that she's saying it to him at all. Before this all happened, hell would have frozen before she would have ever come close to speaking about such things with him.

"Maybe Grandpa can help," he suggests, remembering that finding Rumple is on their list of things to do today.

"And maybe magic can make everything better." She flicks her hand and then immediately doubles over.

His first thought is that he has to stop her from being in pain. His second thought is that it almost looks like she's intentionally causing herself this pain, and maybe she's even welcoming what she feels there in some twisted way.

"Mom," he snaps, and then his hand is settling over hers. He takes the glass from her, puts it down, and tries to get through again with, "I know you're turned around right now. Fake memories…Elizabeth…all sorts of things, but –"

"Oh, Henry," she murmurs. "Do you know that I thought you wanted to fuck me?"

His stomach rolls but he forces himself to answer. "I knew Elizabeth thought that."

"I am Elizabeth."

"You are Regina Mills."

"We are both," Regina answers. "That's what your grandfather always says. So that means…we are all."

"All?"

She doesn't reply, just looks down at her hands, like they might be able to tell her some great secret.

"Look, Elizabeth was afraid of me, okay? But you know I'd never hurt you, Mom. You _know_."

"I do," she allows. Then shakes her head. "I'm sorry." Her shoulders sag. "I'm just…"

"Exhausted," he supplies, knowing that this is far more than just simple tiredness, but also willing to allow her this out if it means that she'll willingly go lie down. He has a feeling that he'll be fighting for both of his moms to rest.

Frequently.

"It's making me a little crazy," she tells him with another little nervous not quite sincere half-laugh.

"Yeah, well, then maybe we hold off on anymore drinking until you get a full eight hours of sleep.

"Yes, maybe," she agrees, and then starts to stand, wincing as she feels all of her injuries.

"Can I –"

She turns to look at him, "Will you tell me about your wife?"

Thrown by it for half a second, he doesn't respond. Not until he sees her physically shrinking back from the question, like she shouldn't have asked it. He smiles softly, then. "Yeah, of course. I'll tell you everything."

"I wanted to be there to see…all of the wonderful moments of your life."

"Me, too," he says, swallowing hard. "I wanted you there, too."

"You know, I always wanted to be a mother," she states, and then she's turning and limping away.

Leaving him confused. And more than a little frightened.

Because yeah, they're home, but clearly, everything is far from okay.

Miles and miles from okay.

 ** _TBC..._**


	14. Eleven

**A/N:** As always, thanks for putting up with the long wait times. I very much hope that it's worth the wait.

 **Warnings:** A non graphic dub-con sexual situation between Trev and Elizabeth, very brief discussion of the equally dubious relationship between the Queen and Graham, the aftermath of abuse, mental instability and some rough language. There are some mentions of Hook as well (for well, obvious reasons).

 _Enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!_

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

She steps inside their house, weary and sluggish; she thinks she must look practically run over, but then his arms are wrapped around her, his mouth pressing against her neck. "I missed you, baby."

Elizabeth Carson smiles weakly in response, and tries not to think about how him touching her in any way is just about the last thing she wants right now.

Instead of indulging in such destructive _damning_ thoughts, she pleads, "Not tonight, Trev, okay?"

Because her head is pounding, and she's seeing halos in front of her eyes. It's been like this all day – getting increasingly worse instead of even mildly better - and all she wants to do is curl up under her blankets, and make all of the lights in the world go away. All she wants to do is somehow find some solace somewhere in deep sleep.

She thinks about the sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, and knows she'll be taking a few tonight. More of them than she knows she should take. After all, with every refill, the doctor shakes his head and mutters at her in his best patronizing tone, "Not so many, Elizabeth," but then he hands her another script to fill.

Because he doesn't actually care.

None of them really do. Like pretty everyone else in her purposeless life, as long as she goes away, and never complains about how little he actually helps her, he'll continue to pretend that he has her best interests in mind.

"There's some residual from your accident, but mostly, Elizabeth, it's all just…phantom pains," he'd said the last time she'd gone in to get her headaches checked out. "Stress from…everything. Trev tells me you've been trying –"

She'd cut him off there, sharply and then softening when his eyes had widened. "No more trying," she'd replied.

Because how many times do you have to fail before you realize nature thinks you're not meant to be a mother.

"That's probably for the best," he'd replied in what was plainly meant to be an empathetic tone, and she'd known that he'd talked to Trev before he'd seen her. He's supposed to be her doctor, but very few things are only hers and not theirs. Trev hadn't wanted her to see an independent gynecologist, he'd wanted her to stay with his old family doctor instead ("someone we can trust, babe; he won't put you through it all"). She'd thought it ridiculous when he'd said that, and in one of the few times that she dared to defy him, she insisted on seeing one, and yeah, she had gone through the full spectrum.

Countless tests and injections and everything else that could be done to give her a chance at having a baby.

All for nothing; Trev had been right.

His doctor friend ("Our doctor, Lizzie," Trev corrects whenever she calls him 'Trev's friend') had been right.

And they'd all let her know as much in most infantilizing way humanly possible.

Trev had said, "I'm sorry, honey; I wish you hadn't put yourself through all that for nothing."

Like he'd always known how it would end.

Turns out he had known.

Turns out they'd all been right, and tonight, all she feels is an empty womb and a pounding head with a thousand ugly memories locked away somewhere down deep. Memories about the loss of family. About the absence of it.

Or at least that's what she assumes.

She remembers almost nothing about it beyond that she'd had a sister, and now she doesn't.

These are dark thoughts, ugly thoughts, and she pushes them away as her head pounds a little bit harder.

Trev clearly wants sex tonight, but she thinks that both of those things – especially with the migraine rapidly reaching a practically blinding intensity - should be more than enough to convince Trev to maybe back off tonight.

She thinks maybe she's actually going to catch a break when he drops down in front of her. "Not feeling well?"

"No," she admits with a tired sigh. Along with everything else, her feet are aching from being up on them all day, and her back is pulling, too; the downside of hours and hours walking across the hard floor, going back and forth.

She almost wants to laugh; you list all of those things out, and you start to sound like you're kind of a mess.

And not the beautiful kind.

Trev reaches out for her, and places his calloused hands on her cheeks, his thumbs on her cheek in a way which seems and is familiar (and yet somehow wrong when it's _him_ , and that's a thought which has never made sense to her, but it's one she's had entirely too many times). She doesn't know why exactly, but she has an almost instinctual need to pull away from him, from the roughness she feels there. A shadow crosses her mind, and within it, the strangest of pictures (that woman again – the one who looks like her, but she is standing in a…castle?).

There's a handsome bearded man standing across from her, his head bent, a grimace on his face. He looks both angry and pained, as if he's being forced to stand there and submit to her, like he knows that he has no power.

Elizabeth thinks that she knows that feeling well.

Her Other-self tells him to kneel.

" _Kneel before your Queen, Huntsman."_

He does, falling to a knee, the rocks scraping at the rough fabric of his pants. He looks up at her, and then turns his hands towards her, his palms upwards, subservient and pliable. Rough hands, the skin broken and calloused.

"As you command," he says, sounding as though he hates her. It's chilling and frightening, and bizarrely intoxicating all at once.

"Lizzie?"

She blinks and looks into Trev's eyes, seeing worry mixed with annoyance there. His hand goes to her forehead.

"Baby, we need to get you into bed."

"Trev," she protests. She wonders if she's protesting his name for her or his supposed care-taking. Does it matter?

"Shh," he responds, hands tightening in a kind of unspoken warning. Perhaps he doesn't mean it, or perhaps he does, but when his fingers press into her wrist, his meaning seems clear to her. He knows best, he's telling her.

Yes, his not-so-subtle reminder that he knows best, that nothing good ever happens when she doesn't listen to him. Doesn't she remember all the times when she hadn't? When they'd argued because she hadn't listened?

Her head drops against his shoulder, and she feels more than sees him release his breath in relief of her surrender.

He lifts her up into his arms (ignoring her weak protests), and she knows where and how this will go.

Where and how this always goes.

Murmuring words which are supposed to sound like loving reassurances, he puts her on the mattress, and he peels her clothes off and then his own. She feels his body against hers, softer than it had been when they'd first gotten together. As his arms envelop her, she smells the tobacco on his breath. It makes her almost laugh because of how much he hates it when she smokes (she finds her mind drifting to the pack hidden in her coat, the smallest form of self-ownership and even defiance that she has to left to her, and isn't it funny, she thinks, that she needs to have any kind of that?). It makes her almost laugh because in moments like this one, she gets a strange type of clarity.

Oh, it's fleeting (or perhaps it's not, and it's just that holding onto the strange clarity she has is pointless and even dangerous), but it's still a strong sense of reality for a second or so – this understanding that nothing she says or does or feels will ever actually change the course of things for her.

She's Elizabeth Carson, and she has a singular purpose in life: to be a wife.

Not a mother as she'd always wanted to be, but a wife, and she supposes that that has to be enough. Because it's still something, and what was she before she was this?

He kisses her neck, and down her chest. "It's okay," he tells her. "I've got you. It's going to be okay. You're okay."

Yes, this is how it always goes. Slowly, he will turn her and slowly, he will move over her, and it's all just one more capitulation to that singular purpose. To that singular unspectacular and diminishing reason for existence.

Twenty-four hours from now, a boy and his daughter will enter her life and change everything, but that's for later.

For tonight, there's just this.

Fingers gripping hard enough to bruise her olive skin, he whispers he loves her into her ear, and she repeats it back to him. Like it means something to her. Like love really exists and can make everything whole and right again.

But it can't, and there are cigarettes in her coat, and she wonders idly how hot the tip of one would feel against skin. It's a startling thought, or at least it should be, but her head is pounding, and this is all so meaningless.

When he's done with her, she'll stumble up, and get the sleeping pills, and then the world will go away.

 _Won't that be nice._

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

He's conducted this particular inventory at least five dozen times by now, he thinks as he walks down the aisles of his store, checking his stock. As is the new normal now, there's always something missing – some drug or medicine that disappeared right after everyone has returned from nothingness. Most likely, it the looters who always seem to strike during the time when they're all too confused and disoriented to stop or to even notice them. The ones who seem to come to their senses the quickest and use that time to make sure that at least they have something.

Everyone else is scrambling for grounding, and well…these little bastards seem to get it in taking from others.

Doc takes a deep breath, steadies his hand against the wall for a moment, reminds himself that such thoughts have no value. No one has come out of this tragedy unscathed – not even the thieves who keep stealing from him.

David and Snow insist that this will be the last time, but it's hard to believe in them and their faith, anymore.

It's hard to believe in tomorrow when it seems like it keeps disappearing into a cloud of dust and ash.

A bell rings near the front of the shop, and Doc turns to see who's made their way in today. This – much like the constant thefts - is usual, too – a kind of stuttering stammering sense of _decent_ normalcy which tries to assert itself one more time. It's gotten harder over the years, more forced. After all, there doesn't seem like much of a need for items such birth control when it takes ten years to pass by for them to experience six months of living.

But the person who has just entered isn't one of his normal customers.

Or, at least she hasn't been in almost a decade.

"Your Majesty," Doc says, rushing around the counter towards her, his eyes wide, his voice stuttering.

Regina looks up at him, eyes narrowed almost quizzically for a moment.

"Your Majesty," she repeats quietly.

"Sorry; Madam Mayor."

He's struggling, trying to find the right way to address her. They've never been friends on any level. He's never been of the opinion that Regina ever had much use for any of the dwarves, and certainly his association with Snow had been something that had placed them on opposite sides. But, even with that long in the past, and their relationship having grown to being professionally respectful; clearly, that's not what she's responding to now.

"Regina," he quickly corrects. "How…" he stops and smiles. "What can I do for you?"

His eyes sweep over her, taking in the strange way that she's moving. He can tell that there's some broken bones – most likely her ribs, he assesses - and thinks that she probably shouldn't be up and about. Not that something like human frailty has ever stopped the Queen; he has known her a very long time (perhaps not as long as Snow White has, but he's been adjacent for much of their history together, and has seen much) and in all the years he's known her, living with terrible injuries have been a common theme. Equally common is her inability to ever slow down.

To ever allow herself to just _heal_.

"I need something," Regina replies, looking around as if she's confused and a bit disoriented. When she looks back at him, he has the strange feeling that she's looking right through him. Not in the way that the Evil Queen once had, when she'd walked over everyone and everything in her path in her single-minded quest for vengeance, but rather as though she's struggling to focus on him. Rather like her mind is struggling to stay in one place for long.

"Something like…aspirin?" he gentle prompts after a few moments of hanging silence.

"No." She shakes her head almost frantically. "Something…stronger. I need painkillers."

Doc tilts his head, his eyes quickly sweeping over her again. Quickly, because he quite correctly observes a discomfort about her; he sees the way she's practically curled around herself. "Have you seen Dr. Whale yet?"

"I don't need him." She forces something that looks more like a grimace than a smile. "But if I did need one, well that is your name, isn't it?" She rolls it across her tongue, almost as if she's reminding herself of it. "Doc. Right?"

"Yes, of…of course. But, with all due respect –"

"You have none for me," she cuts in, her voice flat and empty.

"On the contrary, I…I have a tremendous amount of respect for you."

"No, you're afraid…either of or for me. Because you look at me and see a broken pathetic weak woman." Her words finish into something of a snarl, and he finds himself looking into the eyes of the Evil Queen again. But just a fleeting moment, and then there's someone else there – someone who is sunken back and dull. Almost lifeless.

His mouth opens and then shuts. "I –"

"Why didn't I just leave him? Why did I have to be convinced to? No one understands. I don't understand."

She moves anxiously away from Doc, a hand lifting and her fingers sliding through her hair; she flinches away immediately as she feels the length of it, and then she's wrapping her arms around herself as she moves.

He thinks he should follow her, to try to calm and comfort her, but the unsettled shock he's feeling is significant.

Instead, he watches as she meanders down several rows, picking up and putting down supplies. He sees her stop in the aisle with the alcohol, picking up a bottle of whiskey and looking at it, her head slightly tilted in thought.

She puts it down after a moment, and turning, walks back to him.

"Do you recall the first time you met me?"

"I recall the first time I saw you," he answers. "After…after the King's death."

"The King," Regina repeats. She frowns and then says in a strangely flat voice, "My first husband." She laughs, then, and the sound is so bitter and venomous that it almost makes him retreat. "He was kind of a mean prick."

He blinks at that, not because he necessarily disagrees (he hadn't known the King – only knows of him through Snow) but because while Regina has certainly never been shy about profanity, somehow this feels crass in a way which is weird and unexpected. "I didn't…I didn't know him. Would you like me to call Snow…or Sheriff Swan?"

"Sheriff Swan. Like she's any better off than I am. Or maybe she is. She is a survivor." Regina shakes her head.

"I should call Snow."

"Don't bother," Regina tells him, and then steps out of the aisle, as if she intends to leave.

"What about the aspirin," he asks, placing himself in front of her. When she stares at him in wide-eyed surprise, he shifts nervously, but doesn't move out of the way. Not yet, anyway "It will help." His voice is gentle, kind, worried.

He wonders if she's about to rip out his heart for his insolence.

Something in the way she's holding herself, the way she looks so lost, tells him no.

Tells him that at least in this moment, the only one at risk is her.

"Okay," she finally replies, and then she's following him over to the counter, a hand settled gingerly on her ribs.

He wonders who would have the audacity to dare to hurt her in this way, and then with a quiet wide-eyed shock, he realizes that her injuries and trauma likely came about thanks to the same one who had hurt them all.

The same one who has him wondering if in fifteen minutes or a month from now, any of this will still exist.

He thinks it unlikely that the Black Fairy had wounded Regina directly, but the haunted look in her eyes…well, he's seen shades of it in Snow and Zelena's eyes over the years. Not to this degree, but damaged is still damaged.

"Take two of these," Doc tells her, handing her a bottle of ibuprofen.

"Two," she chuckles, wryly, almost sounding like herself. "And call you in the morning."

"If you would like to."

"Don't worry, I won't be a burden." Her voice shudders when she speaks, dipping into something tiny and soft. Something unlike the woman he has watched grow from an Evil Queen to a mother and a community leader.

"You're not," he assures her.

She smiles sadly at him as she says, "One…one more thing. But I need you not to say anything. To anyone."

"Of course."

She points behind him. "I'd like a pack of…those."

He turns, eyes widening as he sees what she was pointing at. "The…the cigarettes?"

There's a long few seconds where she doesn't respond, as if she's afraid to, but then slowly, Regina nods.

* * *

 ** _Before._**

She's almost twenty-seven years old and standing naked in a hotel room somewhere in downtown Boston.

Off the top of her head, she's not entirely sure how she'd ended up here, but she can't say she's as surprised as she should be. Closing her eyes, Emma tries to think back to the night before, and tries to remember it all.

There had been a bar – there's always a bar these days, it seems. Well, people in trouble like to drink. Turns out that the people who tend to chase after those troublemakers have a few demons they like to booze away as well.

She remembers stepping inside, the pounding music immediately assaulting her ears. She remembers looking around, and then seeing her mark – a beautiful brunette named Justine Harrison. Wanted for about twenty cons.

She recalls thinking to herself that this wouldn't be easy – con artists always suspect everyone else is. But then, they also always assume that they're the smartest one in every room. Sometimes, that can flip the advantage.

Emma had shrugged her shoulders and made her way to the counter, saddling up next to Justine. "Hi."

Justine had turned and looked at her, dark eyes wary and razor sharp. "Hi," she echoed, eyebrow lifted.

Too smart for the usual games.

Emma remembers thinking that maybe one of these days, she'll learn to stay away from the fire that women like this represent. But, well, as it turns out, she also always thinks that she's the smartest con-woman in any room.

"Buy you a drink?" Emma had asked with a smile meant to be disarming.

"Just enough to get me drunk enough to cuff me?" Justine had asked, grinning broadly.

Emma had tilted her head in acknowledgement. "I guess that depends on who drinks whom under the table."

"Fair enough. But when you lose…well, I'm not gentle. And you know what, honey? I like playing with cuffs, too" She had wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. Leaving little doubt as to her intentions for the night. For them.

Well, Emma had thought at the time, Justine definitely was her type.

Brunette, beautiful, and a pain in the ass.

That had started things going, and from there, they'd somehow ended up back here. In this room, clothes flying, their bodies pressed together. She remembers the feel of teeth against her skin, fingers pressing into her back.

She remembers a few feverish kisses, but neither one of them had had much interest in the trappings of romance.

Justine had held up the cuffs, and Emma had managed just enough coherency to take them and toss them away.

Ensuring that at least she wouldn't end up locked to the bed by her own cuffs.

From there, it'd all gone spinning upside down, Justine crawling atop her and shoving her into the mattress.

Justine is far from the first beautiful (or complicated) woman she's slept with over the last decade, but usually…she doesn't quite lose herself in the sensation of it all. Usually, she stays in control and in command – even dominant.

It's protectionism, for sure, but over the years, it's kept what's left of her broken heart from shattering even more.

She thinks back to yesterday, thinks back to the minutes before she walked into the bar.

Thinks of how she had realized that her birthday – her 27th – was just a few days away, and that she'd be spending it alone. Not a big deal, she'd told herself, and besides, she'd likely have her work to keep her occupied as always.

But sometimes…sometimes you want more than that.

Sometimes, you want to actually connect to someone.

Mean something to someone, even if it is only for a few minutes.

Even if it's just the wrong person in the wrong place at the right time.

Emma sighs and sits down on the bed, wrapping the blankets around herself.

Justine is long gone, of course, and she feels rather like an idiot for having lost her mark, but she'll get her back.

Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually.

After all, what else is there to do?

She's almost twenty-seven years old, and the only thing she has to show for herself is a list of former lovers and enough regrets to make the former list look laughable. Things like the baby boy she'd given up while in prison.

She wonders what he's doing these days, wonders what he's like.

Is he happy with his new family?

Does he miss her?

No, of course he doesn't.

She figures that he probably doesn't even know who she is. After all, it's selfish to hope that he does.

Still, she does, because God, yes, it would be nice to mean _something_ to _someone_ for even a few minutes.

Maybe even something real.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

A little over a decade and a half later, it occurs to her that she's still selfish.

Gazing up at the ceiling, Emma thinks that there's really no other way to look at this. . There are a thousand things that need to be done, a thousand people who need to be helped – one in particular – and right now she's here.

In this almost-too-comfortable bed, thinking of doing nothing besides letting her parents coddle her.

 _Selfish_.

She's gone through so much, but so have they. And deep in her heart, she knows that she's the reason for all the pain they went through – all the pain which all of them have gone through over the last decade. Her weakness and her falling into something she'd wanted instead of something she'd had, that's the why. She thinks that this understanding should drive her towards some higher purpose, and eventually it even will, but…but, maybe not yet.

Eventually, she'll do the right thing.

Eventually, she'll be a good friend, a good mother, and a good daughter.

Eventually, she'll be the goddamn Savior everyone needs her to be.

The one they're owed.

"Emma?"

She doesn't look up, just smiles softly. "Mom."

She hears the footsteps as Snow enters the room, then feels the weight that dips the mattress. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"You should eat," Snow says, placing a hand on her forehead.

"I'm not starving," Emma chuckles.

"I know, but…come down and have breakfast with us. We have so much to talk about."

"I'm not…I'm not ready to," Emma replies, dread seeping through her at all the stories they _need_ to hear.

"You don't have to," Snow corrects quickly. "What's happening in Storybrooke is…it's enough."

It's not, and Emma knows it. Because what had happened outside of Storybrooke is even more catastrophic.

And likely more altering for all of them.

Neither she nor Regina are remotely the same women they'd been before the curse had swept them away. Henry isn't the same young man he'd been before so much loss turned him into someone so much older than his years.

So much more damaged.

All of them, so much more damaged.

She tries not to think about Regina, but in doing so, only feels the guilt of her retreat from the other woman. From the friend that she'd fought for in order to bring back to true herself.

Even if that had meant shattering Elizabeth to get Regina back.

No, no. She thinks that it's more complicated than that. Even if there'd been no chance of recovering Regina, she knows that she still would have done the same thing – believes that she still would have fought to save Elizabeth - because Regina or not, Elizabeth had deserved better than to be married to that horrible creep.

Which…makes her think about her own failed marriage.

One that had not been given the opportunity to end in divorce, instead, it ended in blood running through an alley.

And that brings her back to the alley they'd all been in just a few days ago, and a second terrible gunshot.

Her eyes slip closed, and she tries not to think about Regina there, but she can see her so clearly now lying there bloodies up, her face swollen already, dark bruises ringing her throat. Call her Regina or Elizabeth, she'd hurt so badly on her watch. Not protected like she should have been. Like Emma had promised her that she would be.

"Emma," Snow says again, fingers in hers, gripping. "Come have breakfast with us."

She's about to say yes, about to allow herself this fragile fleeting moment of selfish indulgence before she tries to put her thoughts together and figure out what to do about…anything; but then her cell phone is ringing loudly.

She knows it's Henry again. Without even looking at it. Just as it had been a few hours ago when he'd been pleading with her about Regina. She has a pretty good idea that he's calling to have another go at that.

She sits up slowly, wincing in pain as her back pulls. She forces a smile in reaction to Snow's obvious worry, and then plucks up her phone, "Kid," she says tiredly. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, no? I dunno. Mom…took off a few hours ago, I guess. She was gone when I woke up. She with you?"

"You know she's not. She's probably just stretching her legs. She hasn't had a lot of freedom…for a while."

"I know, but Emma, Zelena may have helped her, but she still has broken bones. A lot of them," Henry protests, sounding so much like a frightened child. One who has no idea how to help the people he loves the most.

She kind of knows the feeling (even as she simultaneously knows she should be doing a whole lot more).

"Henry." She pushes herself to her feet, hand settling on the wall. She feels Snow's hand on her elbow, and throws her mother a look of gratitude. For the assistance given freely and for the love she sees radiating from her.

Love that she soaks up, and then thinks again about just how selfish she is.

"Emma, this morning, when I saw her, she was already drinking, and she seemed…so incredibly off. Zelena told me when they talked last night, when she tried to help her, Mom was really weird with her, too." Henry insists.

"She's been through a nightmare, Henry. What are you expecting from her?" Emma replies, emotion flushing her words. She immediately regrets the strength of reply, seeing Snow shift anxiously, her grip tightening slightly.

Likely wondering about Emma's own nightmare. Most certainly wondering how she can help, and if Emma will allow her to.

"Us to help each other," Henry replies quietly.

Cutting right through to the heart of it, then. The things they should be doing.

Emma sighs. "I know. Just…let her have today, all right?"

"She's hurt."

"She's not going to accept medical care. She's still your mother," Emma answers wryly. "You know how she is."

"I know how you both are; my mothers are stubborn," he teases.

She smiles a bit, thankful for the moment that moved him away from his intense worry.

"Yeah, we are." Choosing to change the subject, maybe redirect his thoughts, Emma asks, "How's Lucy holding up so far? I bet this is all pretty wild for her. She's…been through a lot in the last couple of days as well."

"She's the one telling me we're home, which to her means everything is going to be all right."

"Well, you have told her all the stories."

"All of _our_ stories," he responds.

"Point is, those stories are why she believes," Emma tells him kindly. "They're good stories." She leaves unsaid the rest of the sentence, that they're just stories. Even if she knows that it's not exactly true – she had lived each and every one of those stories, but they feel so distant now. So far away from the woman standing in this bedroom.

Savior, Evil Queen, Captain Hook?

How about three broken souls tossed into a blender on high and then spat right back out again.

Or not, in the case of Hook.

She places a hand over her aching heart; she's a long way from the grief of his death, but perhaps not the guilt.

"I know you don't believe," Henry says. "I know she doesn't. Not anymore. Sometimes, I'm not sure that I do."

"You do," Emma insists. "It's what _you_ do."

"I guess it is; guess I do," he allows. "And whatever it takes, I'll find a way to help you two believe again, too."

"Just be a good dad, Henry. Put Lucy first."

"Mom –"

"Kid, your grandma is trying to tell me the pancakes are burning. Can we talk later."

"Of course. You're –"

"The same okay that I was a few days ago. Better. We're home, right?"

There's a long pause before he replies, a kind of awareness that leaks back over the phone line.

She's certain that his own genetically passed down lie detector just pinged like crazy. Certain that he's seeing her failings like they're written in flashing neon letters.

But if he is, he isn't admitting to it. Instead, he says softly, "Okay."

She exhales, and pleads, "Be patient."

She means with both she and Regina.

With everyone and everything.

He says, "Okay," one last time, and thankfully, the call ended.

She turns to Snow, shakes her head to stop her mother from trying to once again make all of this better with a hug.

Last night, it had kind of worked, but the real world tends to be darker in the harsh light of day.

Snow seems to understand for once, instead saying, "If the pancakes burned, we can make new ones."

Emma knows it's a metaphor for something…perhaps, something strong and supportive.

Right now, though, it's also a balm for her wounded broken spirit, and so she grabs at it greedily.

 _Selfishly_.

* * *

 ** _Before._**

"Bet this night wasn't anything like you thought it would be," Emma sing-songs as they make their way down the street; Boston is an older town, oddly quaint for its size, but also full of broken sidewalks to stumble over.

Especially when you're plastered drunk.

"Well, I didn't take you for much of a dancer, Miss Swan," Regina replies saucily, a loopy smile spreading across her beautiful face. They're stumbling along together, side-by-side, probably looking a whole lot like they're either two old grannies or two teenagers.

Or maybe some twisted hybrid of both.

Which, considering just how long Regina has been alive, probably isn't terribly far off. Actually, considering just how stunning Regina looks tonight, Emma's not sure she's comfortable with such a thought. But then, thinking about how attractive Regina is tonight is its own dangerous thought considering…she's married.

To Killian.

Who is back in Storybrooke, supposedly out on a boat with her father.

Not - apparently - enjoying his time away from her as much as she is enjoying her time away from him. Instead, up until about an hour or so ago, he'd been texting her every fifteen minutes to ask how her night has been going.

Which is more than just boredom, she knows. Jealous, too. Which…is probably half the problem.

But no, there's no problem, she quickly tells herself. Just some general separation anxiety. Which is why she'd finally texted him back telling him to chill out and that she'd call him in the morning and please have a good night.

She thinks she probably should feel bad about that – about the obvious brush-off of it - but…but she doesn't.

Randomly, Emma tries to remember just how many drinks the two of them had downed, but it's all kind of a wash.

What she remembers is the two of them and Henry, and the music, and this wonderful perfect night where it had been just the three of them on a dance floor celebrating their weird little family and the unexpected evolution.

The many ways in which this little family that they have built has become more important to them than any of them would have ever expected it to.

True, come morning, she and Regina will be heading back to Storybrooke, and Henry will be starting the next part of his life as a college freshman, and God, there are so many wonderful and terrifying thoughts connected to that.

Like what happens between her and Regina once he's no longer standing between them to pull them together.

Thoughts they've both had hundreds of times…even tonight.

Maybe especially tonight because tomorrow … everything changes.

"Emma, stop thinking stupid thoughts," Regina sighs. "They're…very…stupid."

"Eloquent."

Regina stops suddenly, the movement jerky thanks to the abruptness of the motion. If there'd been any doubt about just how hammered the two of them are right now, Regina's uncoordinated movements silence them. On the other hand, her dark eyes look back at Emma with an awareness and intensity that seems impossible and…

Yet.

"Oh, don't get smart with me. We both know that you're having the same thoughts I am," Regina tells her, her eyes piercing. She sways a bit, but holds herself up. "And they're stupid thoughts. Ugly stupid _ugly_ thoughts."

"Ugly thoughts. Got it." She grins. Then whispers conspiratorially, "What _ugly_ thoughts are you having?"

"I'm thinking I shouldn't have let you place the last drink wager," Regina says as she squints in that way that people who are drunk sometimes do when they're trying to figure out why everything in front of them keeps going goofy.

"Regretting it, are we, Your Majesty?" Emma teases.

"At the moment? Not particularly. Come morning, I'm sure the hangover will say otherwise." Regina then tries to straighten up, but she's in heels, and she more wobbles than rights, one hand going out to steady herself.

"I do enjoy how coherent you are even when you're drunk," Emma chuckles, as she's reaches out, sliding an arm around Regina's waist, pulling her perhaps a lot closer than she should, but enjoying the feel of it all the same.

In the back of her mind, where there's still sense and reason, she knows this sudden closeness between the two of them is dangerous. Knows that their relationship has reached a dangerous place where a decision is coming.

Their relationship is complicated and messy, and not at all simple, when the relationship is just co-mothers. Add being partners and real friends to the mix, and the complications in their relationship become even messier.

And being more than that, well they become almost…but, no…no, they're not more…they're –

"Emma, you're thinking again. You're going to trip me."

It's a weird statement to make. It's utterly incoherent.

But Regina takes a step forward, and they're both stumbling; and it's only their arms around each other that stabilizes them and keeps both of them from crashing to the ground. And God if that doesn't feel on the nose.

Regina looks at her, and she looks at Regina, and they're both just staring at each other.

Losing themselves in each other, as they have always tended to do. Perhaps never before like this but…

"We shouldn't –" Regina starts, but then her hands are on Emma's face, and her fingers are rubbing across smooth skin, each motion like a river of fire being scored, and Emma laughs, it feels like she's in a goddamn romance novel.

Emma's own hands lift, thumbs tracing over Regina's cheeks; Regina inhales sharply, eyelashes fluttering.

"What do you want, Emma?" Regina asks her.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question."

"You know what I want. Everyone knows what I want," Regina tells her, looking right at her, staggeringly sober.

Aware of the importance of this moment. Of this choice.

"I think…I _know_ …I want to kiss you," Emma tells her, and then nods to confirm her own words.

"Good," Regina replies, and then she's the one leaning in and kissing Emma, and yeah, they're just… _complicated_.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

It's practically afternoon before Emma finally breaks away from her parents. Before she finally forces herself to leave their house. Their food and their laughter and their arms, which never stop being offered to her freely.

It's stupid, and she's not a child.

She's a twice-over convict and a murderer. She doesn't need nor does she deserve parental coddling. But, they'd given it her without hesitation, and she'd craved it, and she thinks she's never tasted pancakes quite so good.

Yeah, stupid. Story of her fucking life.

Right up there with selfishly bad choices

But for the moment, there's another story which has her attention, and it's the agonizing pain in her back. Which is what has driven her into the pharmacy, looking for anything that can make the nerves scream a little bit less.

"Sheriff," Doc says when he sees her come in, stepping around the counter to her, his usual, almost shy smile on his lips. Of all of the dwarves, of all the strange little men so loyal to her parents, he's the one she's always appreciated the most. He is the one who has always seemed the most aware that the world they'd come from – the one which she'd never taken a single step in - had been a bit like a bed of roses. Beauty mixed with pain.

Now, though, she considers correcting him; she considers reminding him that there really isn't an authority structure in this very broken town of theirs. There's no law and order here, but if there were, she certainly wouldn't be at the top of it with a badge. But his eyes are serious, and he looks concerned, and perhaps her heroic do-something instincts die harder than she thought.

"What's up?" Emma queries, her hands around the aspirin she'd picked up. She'd considered getting Whale to prescribe her something stronger, but all the attempts at normalcy through the usual procedures just seem strange to her. It would mean trying to find an ordinary through bureaucracy and red tape, and right now everything just hurts too much for that.

Maybe her heart most of all, and there's no prescription for that.

"I thought…I wanted to talk to you about the Queen." He shakes his head to correct himself. "Regina."

Emma sighs. "Look, I'm sure some people are pissed and blaming -"

"No, no!" He takes a breath. "No, no one is…I mean I'm sure that someone is because someone always does, but we know who was responsible for the last…however long this has been going on. It's not…it's not Regina. No."

"Okay, then?"

"She was by earlier. Like you. She came by for some painkillers and some – well, that doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "She wasn't exactly acting like the Mayor Mills I remember. Or the Queen. To be blunt, Sheriff, she didn't look very well, and when I tried to talk to her, she looked at me like she didn't always know who I was."

"Oh," Emma says. "I...I don't know if you heard…everything that the Black Fairy did to us." She frowns when she says this, wondering if it sounds incredibly self-centered to say it, especially after all the town has been through.

Thankfully, Doc doesn't appear to think so nor holds her words against her. "I heard the three of you were cursed with new identities." He dips his head in a show of consolation to her. "I'm very sorry about your husband."

"Me, too," Emma replies. She lets his words wash over her for a moment, the realization that this is something she is likely to hear for a long time to come hitting her hard. Especially since none of them actually know the truth. "As for Regina, she was that person for the last decade. I think…well, no, I know…she's struggling with it. You know how that is."

"A bit," Doc answers with a wry chuckle. "Though, we didn't really remember much day to day. The curse we were under, it seemed like we just lived the same… story over and over, and well, it wasn't so bad. And, I think my cursed personality wasn't…as dissimilar as some of the others were. I get the feeling that hers…was more so?"

"You could say that," Emma acknowledges grudgingly, finding herself unwilling to discuss with Doc just how very dissimilar Regina and Elizabeth truly are. Instead, she smiles tightly, "Don't worry, we're watching out for her."

"Good," he says. "I'm…I don't blame her for what happened to this town, but…I went through the years when she wasn't particularly stable, and things weren't good for anyone. A lot of people were hurt. Including, I think, her."

"Yes," Emma agrees.

"And…if the Black Fairy were to return –"

"The town will need us. I know." She sighs, then says again, "Don't worry, we're – _I'm_ watching out for her."

He nods, then hands her a bottle of aspirin. "One of you two really should go see Dr. Whale. She has broken ribs and…you're clearly in pain as well, Sheriff; he can do an exam and then prescribe something that can help you."

Emma wants to argue with him about what can and cannot help her and Regina (very little that any of them would understand, she thinks grimly) and about Doc's absurd insistence on following policy and procedure right now.

She stops herself from either argument; first, realizing that talking about what they're going through is something she has no desire to do (even while silently acknowledging that before this is all over, both of them will need to open up to someone) and second, that following procedure is what is creating the much-needed normalcy.

Perhaps within that frantic attempt at normalcy, she thinks they will find the hope they all so desperately need.

Perhaps even her and Regina.

Maybe her and Regina most of all.

So, she offers one more smile and a note of gratitude, and then steps outside and pulls out her phone. She quickly dials Henry's number, waits for him to pick up and then says, "Hey, Kid; any luck at finding your mom?"

* * *

 ** _Before._**

She's gone.

"We're so sorry, Mr. Mills, but she's gone."

"We did everything that we could, and we're so sorry, Mr. Mills, but she's gone.

"Can we call someone for you, Mr. Mills? Family?"

Dressed in a handsome suit, blood on the collar of it, Henry stares straight ahead, eyes on the far wall.

A hand touches his elbow.

"Sir."

He shakes his head and says softly, "No."

"There's no one to call?"

"She's not gone. She's…no, she's…you don't understand. It was…we were on a date night. It was…we haven't had one in so long, and I wanted us to go out. She wanted us to stay in, but I convinced her…we should go dancing…"

"I'm so sorry –"

He turns and looks at the doctor for the first time since she'd started speaking. "You don't understand."

"I do," the doctor tells him, and then she's leading him over to the chairs and guiding him into one of them.

"We have a daughter. I don't –" he looks up at the doctor, eyes wide with desperation. "How am I going to tell her this?" He droops back, then, as reality starts to crash down on him. A sound breaks forward, a kind of pained mewl; immediately he clamps his hand over his mouth. Like he can't quite believe the anguish he hears there. Hot tears spill down his cheeks as he keeps shaking his head in disbelief. "It should have been me," he says in a breath.

The doctor turns, speaks to one of the nurses, and then kneels down beside him. "Is there someone we can call?"

"No. My mothers are gone. My whole family is gone." He laughs, the sound loud and heartbreakingly shrill.

"Okay," the doctor says, reaching out to take his hands.

Henry says again, softer, "She's gone. They're all _gone_."

His head falls, and he's shaking.

He whispers something again about his mothers.

About how they could make this better; it's all incoherent, and he's plainly in shock.

He starts sobbing, then, his body practically seizing as several nurses move to aide him.

Holding him as he breaks apart with every shudder of his body.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

Henry knows that she's reluctant still. He knows that she's still reluctant to press on Regina before it may be time to do so. But when is the right time? When is trauma and hurt reduced enough to create an opening?

He thinks there's never a right time, though, and he tells Emma so.

She doesn't reply, and he has to remind her that he's not a kid anymore.

He reminds her that he's been through hell, too.

She says, "Yes," but he also hears the unsaid, "But not _our_ hell."

Still, she agrees to look for Regina. Because if Regina's having trouble figuring out who she is, that's a problem.

"No, that's a pretty bullshit reason to go looking for her," Henry tells her. "She's your friend. Not some…problem."

"I know. I didn't…she's my friend, Henry. More than that. She means…more than I know how to put into words."

"Because you love her."

"Henry –"

"Just two days ago, you risked going back to prison for her. You shot a man for her."

"I remember." She said, tightly, tensely.

"You went to the fucking wall for Elizabeth."

"I remember."

"You telling me you wouldn't do more for _Regina_."

"Henry, it's not about what I would do for her," Emma insists angrily. "Goddammit, you _know_ that. You know there's…there's pretty much nothing that I wouldn't do for her, okay? It's just…I don't know how to help her."

He thinks that she sounds strained, even scared; that there's something not being said, something that tastes a whole lot like guilt and fear to him. He knows those emotions entirely too well, remembers scrubbing at the blood on the collar of his suit three weeks after they buried Alicia, tears streaming down his cheeks as he'd torn at the expensive fabric, feeling his knees collapsing from under him as the memories of her loss had suffocated him.

It had been Lucy's arms around him that brought him back.

Lucy telling him stories when all he'd wanted to do was curl up and hide from the world.

He'd realized that it was a kind of full circle; just as he'd once kept his mother emotionally grounded during some of her darkest days of her turbulent journey towards redemption, his daughter had been doing the same for him.

Maybe, he can ground his mother again. Ground them both, and give them both hope.

His life has been a rollercoaster when it came to his own journey – from the one with the most, to the one with the least. From a heroic prince of two houses to a broken father indulging in drugs and alcohol to make him forget.

Lucy had helped him to remember who he'd wanted to be, who he could be if he could allow himself to think and see straight. Maybe he can do that for his mothers. Maybe he can help them do that for each other. They're going to need that; not only for themselves, but for this town. The Black Fairy is still out there somewhere, and everyone knows (believes) that she will be back eventually. To try again. To try to destroy them all over again.

He knows the stories from before, knows why she had been able to defeat them before.

They have to be strong and united enough to stop her this time.

"We let her know we're here for her."

"It's not that easy. What she's gone through…what she's going through…"

"We have to try."

Emma sighs, and says, "You're right. I'll…I'll check her vault. And I'll see if Zelena or my mom have heard anything."

"Good; I'll check her office."

There's a pause and then, warily, "Kid, just…be cautious, okay? Your mom can be unpredictable on the best of days, and these are certainly not those. She's struggling right now, and…just…remember who she is."

"Who is she?" Henry challenges. "The Evil Queen?"

"No," Emma replies solemnly. "She's Regina Mills, and right now, that's just as bad."

"Have some faith, Emma. We didn't come this far to not bring our family back together when it matters most."

"Yeah," she answers, and doesn't believe him.

The call ends, and he thinks about how sometimes you can't bring your family back together.

Sometimes, there's only, "We did everything we could, Mr. Mills; we're so sorry."

But not today.

Not ever again if he has anything to say about it.

 **TBC…**


	15. Twelve

**A/N:** As always, sorry for the delays. Bleh. **  
**

 **Warnings:** Non graphic sexual situations, brief mentions of dub-con and marital rape, depression and alcohol abuse.

 _Let me know your thoughts, and thank you for reading!_

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

He's on his way out of the house (he's supposed to meet up with Violet and a few of their friends) when he sees her staring out the window. Normally, he wouldn't think much of it – he almost doesn't stop – except something seems off about her. Her posture is rigid, he thinks, the lines of her body too straight and hard, nothing like the way she usually stands when she's at home. "Mom?" he asks, coming up behind her, a hand reaching out to touch her elbow.

"Henry," she murmurs. He then notices, then, that she's holding a thick envelope in her hands, her fingers tight around the paper, perhaps even slightly tearing it with the pressure she's exerting. He notices the words Boston College in bold letters across the top.

"Is that –"

"I think it's your acceptance letter," she says. She stays still for a moment longer, getting her emotions in check, and then, as she turns, her face breaks into a bright smile even as her dark eyes suddenly fill with tears.

He reaches out and takes the envelope from her, his other hand straying back to lightly squeeze hers. Because he knows what this means to both of them.

He knows how much him leaving home will change for all of them.

He thinks about the countless nights spent sitting next to her in the dining room (sometimes with Emma at her side, the two of them so easy together, so constantly in sync with one another), hunched over the table as they had laboriously filled out application packets for various schools across the country.

He'd known she'd been uncertain about him going away, but because he had wanted to see the world outside of Storybrooke – she'd supported him.

As she always does.

And now…

"Let's see," she says, her hands knitting together, her nervous anxiety clear.

Henry nods, licks his lips, and then tears it open. Just as he's about to pull the contents out, her right hand jerks out and settles on his wrist, the pressure sudden but not at all intense. "Wait …what about Emma? Should we…shouldn't all of us be here for this? Is it…should…this be a…a family thing?"

He knows that she's grudgingly including Hook in the term as well as Emma. It hasn't gone unnoticed by anyone that she's been making an attempt to try to not show her obvious distaste for her best friend's husband. Granted, her attempts have been met with limited success (mostly because she still loathes the man), but still, she's been trying. Henry shakes his head. "We've gone this far," he tells her. "And if it is –"

"We can go over and surprise her at the station; I promised her I'd bring by some of the stew from our dinner later tonight, anyway," Regina agrees in a rush of excited breath as she motions over towards the cooker on the stove-top. "Okay," she says, her eyes so hopeful and excited. "Go ahead and open it."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees. He takes one more deep breath, and then with a dramatic yank, Henry pulls out the letter from inside the package, and rapidly scans the black type, absorbing the words. Sensing his mother's excitement and noticing how close to bursting she is, he starts to read aloud, "Mr. Henry Mills, thank you for submitting an application for the fall semester. After a careful review of your application and your academic record, we are pleased to –"

The rest of the sentence gets swallowed up by a completely out of character nearly ear-shattering high-pitched squeal (and yet it's never seemed more right to him). And, then, her arms are wrapping around his torso, and she's hugging him to her, whispering, "My baby boy, I'm so proud of you." She's crying, he knows. He thinks that he might be, too.

"Momma," he says, head against her shoulder.

She takes the letter from him, reading the rest of it (including when he should report for his first day and where he will be staying on campus). "You did it, Henry. You did it."

"I did," he says, and sounds like he can't believe it. "I'm going away to college."

"Yes," she says, and kisses him on the forehead as she pulls him close again. "You are."

She doesn't want to lose him, is terrified about losing him to life, but she thinks maybe she's never been happier than she feels right in this moment.

Because he is.

So she hugs him, and they cry and they laugh together.

And they talk about how bright and wonderful his future is going to be.

Even as she secretly fears that she's barely going to be in it.

* * *

 ** _Now._**

Henry tells Lucy to stay in the mansion, reminds her in a grave voice not to go out.

Not until he's absolutely certain that there's nothing out there that can hurt her.

Including, unfortunately (though he's loathe to admit it to himself) his mother.

For once, she doesn't fight him, and he thinks that worries him, because she always does. She's so much like him as a child; so confident and certain of her own invincibility.

As only a kid can be.

Now, though, she seems to realize that things are strange and so she says, "Okay."

"Your Aunt Zelena went out…somewhere. She didn't say where, but she should be home soon," he tells her as he pulls on his jacket, looking around for his car keys before remembering that they still haven't actually recovered his car from the town-line yet.

"Okay," Lucy agrees.

"– I know she's a little…weird –" he chuckles to himself at that word, recognizing the fondness he feels for her in his own voice – the wistful edge that lets him know how much he's missed every part of his very strange family. How much he desperately needs them to come together now. "Okay, she's a lot weird, but she's…she's…ours."

"Our family. I know. Dad, it's okay, you don't have to explain; I know you're worried about…everything," Lucy assures him, but he thinks she looks concerned for him in a way that no child ever should. It reminds him of the days when he hadn't been there for her, and she'd been forced to take care of him because he'd been incapable of seeing past his grief. It reminds him of some of the darkest days of his life and how dense that darkness had been around him; he wonders if both of his mothers are in that place now.

No, they're not technically dealing with the fallout from the loss of great love (Emma had lost Hook a long time ago, and though she grieves for him and feels the enormous guilt of it, he wasn't her greatest love; and well, even assuming that they will ever be able to face the truth of what they mean to each other, he thinks that's a whole other bit of messiness between his mothers), but he's beginning to realize that they are dealing with emotional trauma that may be a lot darker than that place he was in.

Post traumatic stress disorder, he thinks grimly, and remembers hours spent with therapists. All of them telling him that healing is a process and never happens overnight.

Even now, he struggles with that idea because as a boy, hadn't it all seemed simpler?

Hadn't his mom just chosen to be a better person, and then she was?

No.

No, that's not it had happened at all, and adult Henry now knows more about the realities of having to struggle and fight with yourself every day to be someone worthy entirely too well.

"Everything is going to be alright," he promises her, and then he's kissing her on the forehead and holding it there, and thinking about when he'd been a child, and how desperately both of his mothers had clung to him.

Yeah, it really is all coming full circle once again.

With one more look at Lucy, one more thought about the weight parents unwittingly place on their children even as they are desperately trying to protect them, he leaves, shutting the door to his boyhood home quietly behind him. With a deep almost ragged breath, hands in his pocket, he makes his way towards the center of Storybrooke.

Towards City Hall.

Because he thinks that she's either there or she's at the vault.

Either one is possible.

Neither one is likely good for her.

He thinks about all the struggles he's had and all the demons he's fought over the last decade and knows that none of them compare with the ones she's struggling against. Yet even as he acknowledges the overwhelming magnitude of what happened to her, at the same time, he doesn't really understand the battles she's fighting.

He knows that she was hurt terribly, but he doesn't understand why being herself again doesn't seem to be the relief that he expected it to be. He doesn't understand why becoming Regina again instead of Elizabeth doesn't seem to be filling her with strength.

Why being back home with her family doesn't seem to bring back the woman who was always first and foremost his Mom with a vengeance.

He doesn't understand, and he knows that his lack of understanding is crippling him.

So he's got to try.

If she's Regina again, well then he has to be Henry for her; that's always been enough.

Enough for all of them.

Both of his mothers.

They all need each other, he knows. More than ever before. He's not going to let his family come apart again – not after he's just gotten them back.

He climbs the stairs up to her office, marveling at just how much nothing has changed over the last decade. But then, it hasn't really been a decade for Storybrooke – far less.

Far worse.

Or maybe better depending on your perspective. What's worse? Being someone else entirely? Being trapped within an actual prison? Or fading in and out of reality?

It's hard to put a measure on just how terrible each of their nightmares has been. He decides that terrible just about sums it up, as he pushes the door to her office open and quietly enters the room, looking around and surveying the familiar surroundings.

"Henry," he hears from the middle of his room, his mom hunched over on the couch. The fireplace across from her is already blazing away, trying to warm her and failing.

That seems a bit too much of a statement right here and now, the writer in him thinks.

"Hey," Henry gently answers, as he quietly slips his hand into the pocket of his jacket. Lifting his phone out just enough to see it, he quickly taps out a text message to Emma to let her know that he's found Regina at the office and asking her to meet them here.

Hoping desperately that she realizes that the time for discussion on this is long gone.

Maybe it's only been one day that they've been back, but he knows this isn't something they can let just let go…hoping that it will somehow figure itself out on its own.

He approaches her tentatively, cautiously, moving into her line of vision before sitting next to her, following her eyes to the wall before adding on, "Mom." He observes the way she's holding her arm across her broken ribs, the bruises from the beating she'd suffered at Trev's hands vanished away by magic, but the underlying injuries surviving.

She chuckles, like she knows that he's trying an old psychology trick of trying to make a connection via her name – or title, in this case. "I'm not going to bite you," she replies, and he thinks it strange for her to say, because that'd been the last thing he'd feared.

He'd been wary of spooking her.

His gaze flickering forward, he warily notices the half empty bottle of whiskey and the pack of cigarettes settled on the table in front of her, and at first thinks that maybe he should have waited for Emma to arrive, but…no, she's his mother, and he knows her.

He does.

He _doesn't_ , Henry realizes, and this realization – this _understanding_ – hits him like a pound of bricks right to the heart; he wonders how many times a heart can break.

"I know you're not going to…bite me," Henry finally stammers out. "I just –"

"Think that I'm about to shatter into a thousand fragile pieces," Regina replies, and lifts the glass up, swirling the amber liquid around within it. "Well, that's understandable."

"I don't…I don't think you're fragile. You're not…it's just, you've been drinking pretty much non-stop since we got back to Storybrooke," Henry observes. "I'm worried."

She nods gravely. "Worried is good, Henry. Worried is smart. You should be worried about…everything." She turns to look at him, then, smiling in a way, which seems so forced that it's almost trembling. "You always wanted me to realize you were growing up, and now? Now, I do. Now I know that I can't protect you from the world, anymore."

"Mom –"

"Lucy," she interrupts sharply, and then nods her head. "You need to keep her away from me, Henry. Far away. I don't want to hurt her, but if you don't keep her away –"

"No, that's…I trust you," he tells her. "You would never hurt her. _Never_."

Regina laughs, reaches out and touches his cheek with her hand, and then says in a disturbingly high voice, "That's sweet. Kind...but very stupid. I _want_ to hurt everyone."

"You don't mean that."

"I do," she murmurs, and then looks away from him, staring at the fireplace. She'd done this the night before, too, and he finds himself unsettled by the way she's watching the flames dance around, like they intrigue and even fascinate her. Maybe this shouldn't bother him because fire has always been a part of her life, but this is different.

This feels dangerous and destructive to him.

Not power, but corrosion.

"Mom," he soothes, and then he's reaching for her hands, folding them between his, frowning at the way she startles at his touch. "I know you're going through a lot right now, but I promise you, we're going to figure all of this out together. As a family, okay?"

She pulls her hands away from him, then says morosely, "I've had so many lovers in my life, Henry. Far too many by the standards of most 'decent' men. But I was 'proper' for my wedding day." She ignores Henry's suddenly widening eyes and gaping mouth, and the way he looks like he's about to fall over himself to try to stop her from speaking. He doesn't interrupt her, though – just quietly stares at her, looking like he's stuck in some kind of horror show. Like they all are. She chuckles to herself macabrely at the thought of this, and then opens the bottle of whiskey, and pours herself two fingers. With little more than a single beat of hesitance, she brings the glass up and knocks it back.

"Mom –"

"You say that so often now," she observes, her head slightly tilted. "Is it to ground me or is it because you were without even one mother for almost a decade?" There's almost a kind of cruelty to her tone – and to the question – but he chooses to let it slide past him.

Chooses not to focus on the things that are certain to only make it all so much worse.

"Both," Henry concedes.

With a bizarrely bemused shake of her head, Regina notes, "I'm not sure I'm capable of being grounded. Any more than I'm capable of being proper. But at least I was that for my first wedding day to your… great-grandfather. Emma's grandfather. But my _new_ husband didn't know that I'd been married before. He didn't know _anything_ about me."

"Mom, you don't –"

"What? Don't you want me to explain? To tell you everything?" she asks roughly. "Don't you want to know everything about who Elizabeth - who _I_ was? Who your stepfather was? You've had several now. Leopold. Killian. And now Trevor. Such delightful men."

He cringes at the raw hatred he hears in her voice, the bitterness and revulsion.

"I don't need to know," he assures her.

"But maybe I want to tell you," Regina answers. "Maybe it's…a love story."

"Is that what you're doing?" Emma says from the doorway. "Telling stories? Or just falling back into old patterns and looking for new ways to push all of us away from you."

"And my Savior finally arrives," Regina says coldly, rolling her head towards Emma, and then immediately looking away from her. "As always getting between me and my son."

"Our son," Emma replies automatically.

"Oh, we're a long way from those days. As for your, opening statement, well, Miss Swan, it seems to me I haven't had to look very far for ways to push you away from me."

"I was trying to give you space, Regina. After everything we went through during the last decade…I figured maybe you didn't want everyone on top of you while you were –"

"Mostly I just don't want _you_ on top of me."

It's an intentional double entendre and both Henry and Emma flinch at it.

After a few seconds, Emma states, "You've been making your way around town."

"You mean, scaring the poor feckless natives," Regina chuckles. "Same story as always."

"Kid, why don't you let your mom and I chat for a bit," Emma suggests. Because she can tell that this conversation is going to get a lot weirder and crueler before it gets better.

If it gets better.

Because it has really only been one day since Regina Mills has been back in the world.

One night and one day, and Regina is still bent forward, hands splayed protectively over her broken ribs, her body still bent and damaged by injuries inflicted by angry hands.

Somehow, Emma thinks it's worse that she can't actually see most of the wounds now.

Somehow, just knowing that they're all still there but out of sight where not enough people can see the true hurt feels just a bit too much like the story of their lives.

"I didn't care for being sent away when I was ten," Henry states. "And doubly not now."

"Yeah, well, then you should haven't ball-busted me into seeing her before I was ready."

"She's right," Regina echoes. "Maybe I didn't want to see her, either."

"Moms –"

"Henry, go," Emma orders. "Bring Lucy to see my parents; they got to meet her for a few minutes last night, but…she's their family, too. They're going to love as much as _we_ do."

Her eyes flicker over towards Regina when she says this, wondering if she's right. Wondering if the woman who had once loved so fiercely could still find a way to do so.

Regina says nothing – just looks back towards the fire, watching the flames dance.

"Please," Henry says softly, eyes wide and worried. "Be there for each other."

He closes the door behind him a moment later, leaving the two women by themselves.

Wondering, as always, what kind of radical life and world change will come from it.

* * *

 ** _Before._**

They're kissing, and Emma thinks that it's the most wonderful thing ever.

She's no schoolgirl, and Regina's not even the first woman she's ever kissed, but there's something explosive and intense about this moment. It's soft hands and even softer lips.

It's apples and cinnamon and something even lighter than both of those things. It's teeth nipping at her bottom lip, and a tongue slipping inwards as the kiss deepens.

It's being shoved in through the door of a hotel room, and hitting the wall just inside of it. It's being yanked across the room and then thrown onto the center of the bed.

"Fuck," Emma murmurs, the solidness of the mattress below her anchoring her so she can focus on the beautiful woman pressing down on her from above her.

She feels dizzy and light-headed, and she's pretty sure it's not just about how drunk she is. How drunk they both are, and then she's leaning up and kissing Regina.

Again.

And thinking that they should stop this.

Because she's married woman, and Regina is her best friend.

Her partner in crime and her co-parent and…this is so wrong.

So very, very wrong.

So, then, why does this feel so insanely natural?

It shouldn't but then Regina is pushing her back down again and kissing her, and all she can think about is how good Regina smells and feels and how wonderful she tastes, too.

"Gods, I want you," Regina mumbles between kisses.

"Yeah?" Emma counters. Then grins cheekily. "How much?"

"Enough to leave marks," the older woman says, and then leans down and nips her jaw.

"Marks," Emma repeats, and thinks that that could be a problem.

Because marks are evidence, and there can't be evidence of this and –

"Regina," she says, a hand up against Regina chest. "Wait…wait."

Regina stops.

Immediately and fully, still drunk but somehow staggeringly aware.

She pulls back and sits on her haunches, clothes messed from contact with Emma, and her lipstick smeared from well, contact with Emma. Her eyes are wide and wounded.

Like she'd been expecting this to stop.

And Emma wonders why.

Her mind is a fog of a thousand thoughts – all of them so very messy and complicated.

About a son who starts a new journey tomorrow.

About a husband who doesn't seem to notice that she's just going through the motions.

About a best friend who is quite clearly having a crisis of faith and belonging.

All of these things slipping away from her.

"Emma, talk to me," Regina pleads, eyes soft and vulnerable to her in that way that has become so uniquely she and Regina over the years. "Tell me…tell me what _you_ want."

Emma leans in and kisses her instead, fiercely passionately. Hands on her cheeks, feeling the flawless skin beneath her fingers, a rippling of muscle as Regina responds in kind.

"You. I want you, too," Emma says once they've broken apart.

They're both drunk, and this shouldn't be happening.

They know better – nothing good can come of this.

Morning will be too harsh, too bright.

But then they're kissing again, and this time Emma is the one pushing Regina back down onto the mattress. She's the one still kissing Regina as she holds herself up over her.

"I'm not going anywhere," Regina answers, fingers pressing into Emma's shoulders as she pulls her down and onto her, their still-clothed bodies pressing tightly together.

"No, you're not," Emma agrees, and were she more sober, she'd recognize the warning in those words, and perhaps even the lie, but right now all she sees is temptation.

And she's sick of denying it.

Because this is just one night and this is just sex, and –

It's just sex (it's not, and she knows it).

It doesn't have to matter anymore than that (it does, and she knows it, and furthermore, she wants it to).

Because Regina matters more – _they_ matter more.

Still, they continue, on fire and falling forward with unrestrained desire for each other. Clothes are rapidly shed and they're still kissing even as they press close to one another.

As they whisper in each other's ears and chase the desperate pleas and requests.

As they find a rhythm with one another which feels too easy and too natural.

Emma laughs at Regina's impatience, and Regina pays her back by biting down on her bicep hard enough to leave a mark. That should worry Emma but she's in too deep already and so she retaliates by teasing Regina mercilessly, bringing her to the point of explosive pleasure and then yanking back until she's good and ready to take her there.

There are kisses up and down each other, soft and sometimes not at all soft. There are touches, which linger and then dip, and whimpers that build and then break.

There is Emma's forehead against Regina's shoulder, her arm frantically moving as her hand works. Regina's hand pressed against her, the two of them wrapped around each other as they go from playing with one another to trying to rise and fall together.

It's sex, and it's amazing and then…

And then Regina leans up and kisses her, and it's not at all passionate.

It's breathing the same air, and stealing slow sensual kisses which linger and hold.

They're both sated and cooling, and Regina is kissing her like she means something. Like she's the sun and the moon and everything in-between.

Their eyes meet, and even with her mind still so soft from the last of the alcohol, Emma knows that even if the phenomenal sex didn't matter (it did), that this moment _does_.

Her hand reaches out, and she gently caresses Regina's cheek, looking into dark eyes so full of love and adoration for her. Not just desire and need, but God, so much more.

"Emma," Regina says, voice trembling, her vulnerability so obvious and raw that it almost physically hurts to see. Her hand comes up to cover Emma's on her cheek, almost hovering there, afraid to push in. Afraid to take what might not belong to her.

Which seems so strange after what they've just done, but Emma gets it.

Knows what is being asked of her.

She answers with another kiss, another one which lingers.

Slowly, they both fall back from it, Emma's arms winding around Regina before Regina turns and faces, pressing her forehead against Emma, needing to have this moment.

This connection.

Even as she instinctively knows that before this is all over, everything is going to crumble.

* * *

 ** _Now._**

Her body coiled for a fight, Emma approaches Regina, cautious but bold.

Knowing that Henry was right, and that even a day of staying away had been damaging. Because right now, Regina is nothing but exposed edges waiting to be rubbed raw.

"I know you don't believe me," Emma says. "But I really was trying to think of you."

"I don't believe you because it's a lie," Regina replies, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in front of her. Emma notes that three are already missing, but says nothing as she watches Regina light one. "Such a disgusting habit," Regina comments. "Back in my world, ladies would occasionally smoke, but it was always in the most 'dignified' of ways. Not like this where it's just cheap tubes of chemicals making you smell like ash."

"So why are you doing it?" Emma queries, stepping even closer.

"Because she wants to," Regina replies, and then brings the cigarette to her mouth. And then sing-songs almost drunkenly, "Ashes, ashes...we all fall down."

Ignoring the unsettling rendition of a childhood rhyme (which to be fair was unsettling even in childhood), Emma queries, "Elizabeth, you mean?"

"Sure."

"Regina –"

"Is this where you remind me of who I actually am?" Regina asks with a caustic chuckle.

"You are Regina Mills."

"So you'd think." She glances towards the fire, head tilted in thought. "But enough of that. Let's get back to the truth about why you've been avoiding me. You forced me back to this…person. My fake life was terrible, but at least I understood it. I knew what was expected of me. Just like I knew what Leopold expected of me. Be on my back when needed, but otherwise stay quiet and submissive. I fought against that once, and destroyed that world. Your world. This time I didn't. Maybe that's how it should be."

"Are you serious?"

"Elizabeth was a pathetic waste of everything. Weak and simpering. She existed only for the sick pleasure of that…man. Much like you did with Hook."

"That's not fair. He was nothing like either of those men."

"If you say so. At least Elizabeth knew who she was. What she'd feel every day."

"He was hurting you," Emma says, her voice trembling. This discussion – this argument – feels unbelievable to her. Unimaginable and yet…not unpredictable. "I couldn't –"

"Couldn't not save me. Because that's what you do. You _save_ people and make their lives worse. You save me, and make everything that was numb starting hurting again." She taps the side of her head, the motion dramatic and violent. "Now they're both there every moment. Telling me to be quiet or demanding that I fight back and destroy. Telling me how pathetic I am or how none of this will mean anything, anyway. She wants to go home to him. To her _safety_. Do you know that? She wants to crawl back to that man."

"El…Elizabeth?"

"She hates him. Hates every single time he touched her. Every time he made her go down on her knees for him." She swallows hard, her face contorting with revulsion. "She loathes him as much as I ever loathed Leopold, but at least…she knew what to expect with him. He would have killed her eventually. He tried to kill her – _me_ – that day."

"Regina –"

"But she'd still rather be there than here."

"And you?"

"Who's to say there's a _me_?"

Emma's eyes close for a moment as she absorbs Regina's furious words. As she considers the recklessness of her own need to make a difference. To matter.

Maybe Regina is right.

Maybe her interference had just made everything worse.

No, she insists to herself, Elizabeth had needed help.

Regardless of Regina Mills – and as even Regina acknowledges – Elizabeth Carson's life had been on a one-way track to a certain end. To a coffin and six feet of dirt above her.

Pretty much where she and Hook's life had ended…though again, that's not fair.

They'd had help.

They'd had the worst of them exposed like live wires, and then there'd been an end.

"Maybe her life should have ended as well," Regina says softly, making it clear that Emma had spoken at least part of her thoughts aloud. "Maybe _mine_ finally – after all these years and all these sins - should have ended. Did you ever consider that?"

"No," Emma admits. Then lifts her chin and adds, "And I won't. I won't give up on you."

"You have before. You will again."

"No," Emma protests, sitting down next to Regina on the couch. "I'm here now. I know it's hard – God, nearly impossible right now – to have any kind of hope, but –"

"Oh stop. You're not your mother and hope speeches from you…just stop. You know, I loved you once, Emma. Loved you more than I think I loved myself. But that was easy."

"Yeah, " Emma agrees, because she understands the self-loathing beneath the words.

Knows how easy it has always been to love someone more than herself. But these words aren't a declaration of love now; they're one of betrayal and hurt.

"Now, I just want you to go away and leave me to my…whatever this is."

"I can't do that."

" _Won't_ do that. Now. Because you're selfish, Emma. We both are. That's what we have always been. That's why everyone around always suffers and ends up hating us. But don't worry – I understand why you're doing this. Not because you really want to – I think you want to get away from the memory of our mistakes just as much as I do."

"That's not true."

"It is. At least admit that you're here because our son – our son who I don't even know anymore because he's grown up now and is a father – talked you into chasing after me." She laughs. "But that's not what you wanted to do. No, you yanked me back to this place, back to myself, and then you ran from me. Because all these wonderful inspiring words about support and hope aside, you can't face the real truth of what we are."

"And what are we?" Emma asks, her thin half-broken voice barely a whisper.

Regina doesn't answer for a moment – instead rises up and walks away, her cigarette hovering in her mouth, her fingers pressed around it even as its tip grows red and heavy with ash. Finally, she replies. "We're worthless, Emma, that's what we are. Burdens."

"Why? Because of everything we've been through? Because we're both hurting?"

"Because you're broken." She drops a hand over her ribs. "Because we both are."

"Broken can be fixed."

"You don't believe that. You know better. We both do. So leave me the hell alone, and let me get through this on my own. I don't want you here. I don't need you here."

"You do. I do. We can help each other through this."

Regina snaps around on her, eyes blazing. "You don't want that anymore than I do."

Emma stands, then, and approaches again, knowing the risk in the movement, but she's at the edge of her own sanity with this. "Maybe I don't. Maybe I do. I don't know anymore, Regina. But I do know that helping each other is the right thing to do."

"We left the right thing behind us long time ago," Regina retorts before adding, "I selfishly –" she laughs. "Story of my life – chose to pursue someone who I had no right to go after and you…you let me. I'm at fault for my choices, but so are you, and this is where we are now. And because of our choices, our family was tortured and your husband is dead. You're right – he wasn't Trev or the King; I might have loathed him, but he didn't deserve to die because we couldn't keep our goddamn pants up."

"That's not what happened. That wasn't…a lot happened. It wasn't just…us together."

"Perhaps it wasn't just us together, but us together started everything. It ruined everything. So don't you dare preach to me about the right thing. The right thing would be us having nothing to do with each other ever again, and deep down, you know it."

Emma bows her head. "I don't believe that. I believe –"

"I don't care what you believe. Leave me alone. That's all I've ever wanted from you."

"You said…you said you loved me." It's a selfish last attempt to connect, a desperate framtic Hail Mary to try to get enough of a reaction to continue pushing forward here.

Even as she knows that there's nowhere they can go as they both currently are.

Yes, _broken_.

Both physically (her back is screaming at her, and Regina is still bent in pain) and emotionally. Both of them pushed to the very brink of sanity and collapse.

" _Loved_. Go away, Miss Swan." She turns her back on Emma, then, walking away, her hand dropping down to rid herself of the cigarette even as she brings alcohol upwards.

Emma thinks to challenge her, thinks to go after her again. Thinks to try to forcibly remind her how they've always been stronger together. But God, hasn't there been enough force in both of their lives already? And how strong are they really, anyway?

She remembers the town line and how the Black Fairy had defeated them so easily.

She remembers Killian dying in a dark disgusting alley, scared and essentially alone.

And she remembers Elizabeth on the ground in another alley, badly hurt thanks to her.

In the end, she's let everyone in her life – everyone she has ever loved – down.

"I'm sorry," Emma says softly, tears on her cheeks. Not the first time, likely not the last.

But maybe there will never be enough apologies.

Maybe, when it's all said and done, it's all unforgivable, anyway.

She's gone a few seconds later, stepping back into the town she'd helped to destroy.

She doesn't hear Regina reply, her voice cracking and breaking, "We all are."

* * *

 ** _Before._**

They both tumble into a restless sleep, hours ticking away until the sun rises.

Until Regina opens her eyes, and realizes - as she looks at Emma's sleeping face - where she is and what's happened.

Realizing at the same time that as drunk as she'd been, she'd also been sober enough to be aware that last night she had chosen to pursue something she'd always promised herself that she wouldn't.

Always knowing the destruction it would unleash.

Now, though, she realizes that she doesn't regret it nearly as much as she knows that she should.

But lines have been crossed.

Emma is an adulterer now, and she's a home-wrecker.

Well, Regina thinks angrily, it's not exactly the first time. Apparently, this is what she does – has sex with married blondes.

Last time, there had been relatively few consequences to the act (especially since Marian had actually been Zelena, and well, that's its own weirdness), but this time, there will be.

Because this time, it really can't ever happen again.

This time –

"We should get up," Emma says suddenly, softly, her eyes open, gazing at Regina.

Regina doesn't reply, just starts to turn and then stops because…because she's sore.

Because last night, she and Emma had screwed their way across this hotel room, and her body is still feeling the physical push and pull of their hours and hours of exertions.

She's guessing by the soft way in which Emma groans that Emma's feeling it as well.

If she allows herself the smallest bit of a smirk at that, well then that's her secret.

She feels the shift in the weight and distribution of the bed as Emma sits up, pulling the blanket up, covering her still naked chest (Regina thinks it slightly strange that neither of them had dressed themselves even after the night had gone to shit and they'd turned from one another). "I'm sure you'd probably like to take a shower," Emma states, slightly stuttering as she turns her head towards Regina. "You can go first. If you want."

"You're sure," Regina murmurs. "Always so confident about my thoughts, aren't you?"

"No, but…but it's a shower, and…we're both –"

"Covered in each other."

"It's a shower, Regina. Why are you angry with me?"

"Because you wish last night hadn't happened," Regina admits, entirely too honestly.

"No, that's...it's complicated," Emma says, and she's looking down at her hand. At her wedding ring. And then over at her bicep where a bite mark can be clearly seen. That she can magic it away once they're back inside of Storybrooke really isn't the point. Right now, it stands as visual evidence.

Proof of their choices and the fall-out of them.

"Yes, well, you should have thought of that before we hit the sheets." It's mean and unfair, but she can feel Emma pulling away, and chooses to do the same.

"Hey! I didn't end up there by myself," Emma retorts. Because now she's angry, frustrated by the responsibility that's being thrown at her. Even though she knows that most of it belongs to her. After all, Regina isn't attached to anyone – she's not wearing a sign of a life long commitment on her hand. She's not the one who had broken a vow.

"No," Regina agrees. "I very much wanted to be there, too. For a very long time, I've wanted to be there…and not just…sexually. But…but I have always stopped myself from ever making an ass out of myself and going after you because I thought…"

"I'm married," Emma says dully. "And madly in love with my husband."

"Yes, and last night was a terrible mistake. For both of us." She stands up, not even bothering to hide her body. After all, Emma has seen and touched every inch of it.

"No," Emma says immediately. "Wait."

Still as naked as the day she was born, Regina frowns as she turns to her.

And into a passionate kiss, hands on her face. Lips colliding, teeth gently nipping.

It's a kiss, which they both know shouldn't be happening.

It complicates literally everything because it's not a promise. It's not even a suggestion of more. But it is something, and even as wonderful as it feels, it hurts just as much.

Regina feels the tears on her face, thinks she feels Emma's as well.

"I'm not sorry," she murmurs.

"You will be," Regina tells her. "Fifteen minutes from now. Twenty. Tomorrow. When you get home and see Hook, and realize you've betrayed him. With _me_."

"No matter what happens, you're the one part of this I won't regret."

"You will. Because everything is going to change. We've changed."

"No –"

"Yes," Regina replies, and then she's the one leaning in for a kiss. Tender. Wanting.

More tears splash down, and then Regina is reluctantly pulling away. "We need to be adults now. No more pretending we can do whatever we want without consequence."

"Regina -

"Turns out you were right, Miss Swan; I do need a shower. So much to wash away."

"That's not fair."

"Life seldom is and we have commitments and promises to get back to. Right now, we need to meet our son so that we can say goodbye to him. Remember? The reason we're here at all. It isn't us." She moves away from Emma, escaping into the bathroom and shutting the door to put separation between them.

As the water turns on, and steam slips beneath the door, Emma finds herself staring at it, thinking and wondering if she should go after Regina once again.

Knowing that the opposite is true – she needs to, no, _must_ pull back and away.

Must try to find a safe place to retreat to.

For everyone's sake.

She knows that these things are true, and yet…she knows that safety is an illusion.

It's an illusion, even a lie, and it's one that she doesn't want to partake of.

She doesn't want to lose Regina.

Can't imagine - doesn't want to imagine - her life without Regina.

And so she determines, staring at the door and the steam, that she won't have to.

Even if that means that everything turns to ash.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

It's amazing to her that there's a functioning bar in Storybrooke.

She'd figured that with all of the starts and stops, they would have been more hesitant to jump right back into finding normalcy again, but perhaps that's exactly why they do it.

Whatever the reason, the Rabbit Hole is open and serving, and so Emma makes her way in, and drops down on the stool at the counter. Her phone is buzzing repeatedly, Henry texting every few minutes asking for an update. Pleading with her to say it's all okay.

She's done lying to people. Even to herself.

"Double shot of Jack," she requests. "Neat."

The bartender eyes her curiously, but nods, and she knows he'll be texting Snow.

Some things haven't actually changed even as everything else has.

"I knew this is where I'd find you, Savior," is heard from behind her, as Zelena's unmistakable accent assaults her ears with its unique brand of sharply accusatory.

"Not really the Savior tonight. Not for a while," Emma answers as she rolls her head to gaze over at Zelena. "Look," she says. "I know I owe everyone for…something, but maybe for a few minutes, you can give it a rest and just let me…drink in peace, okay?"

"I could do that," Zelena agrees, as she sits down next to Emma. "But considering my sister hasn't stopped drinking since all of you returned, I think someone should be sober." She reaches out for Emma's forearm, clutching it in a way that makes Emma turn and look at her, surprised by both the familiarity and the desperation of it.

She nods at the bartender as he returns with her glass, then says, "Your sister –"

"Is a fucking mess. I felt her injuries last night…how did they happen?"

"I'm not sure I should be the one to tell you."

"We both know she won't. She's pushing everyone away. Why? Who hurt her? And don't tell me that nonsense about a car crash. Those injuries were caused by hands."

"Yeah," Emma concedes. Then, reluctantly, "She was called Elizabeth Carson."

"Regina?" Off Emma's nod, she follows up with, "A cursed identity?"

"Yes. And she – Elizabeth - was married.

Zelena's eyes widen. "A _man_ did this to her?"

Emma doesn't answer, just lifts her glass to her lips and takes a long swig from it.

"This…Elizabeth married him…not Regina?"

"Not Regina," Emma confirms. "Regina has been gone for almost a decade. From the moment the Black Fairy cursed us on the town-line until the moment we returned."

"Most people don't have one horrible forced marriage in their lives. She's had two."

"Yeah," Emma agrees.

Zelena's lip curls into a snarl. "And you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."

"No," Emma disagrees. "I'm feeling sorry for everyone I hurt with my choices."

"Same thing. Newsflash, Savior: everyone in this town is a terrible person. We have all done terrible things. Some more than others. Your biggest sin was falling for my sister."

"My biggest sin was acting on it."

"Yes, well, get over it. None of that matters, anymore. Last night, you told everyone Regina would push us away, and then you immediately allowed her to do that to you."

"It's different. I owe her – and you. For everything you've missed out on. For Robin –"

"No, stop. You know, you two idiots are so much alike," Zelena says, standing up. "She tried to blame herself last night for it as well, but I didn't miss a moment with my daughter. Is she younger than she should be? Yes. Has she been through more than she should be? Yes. But every step of the way, I've had this wretched community around me – around her. And every time we have returned, they've been there, and Robin has always known that she will always have them. That fairy, well I'm going to rip off her wings for every bloody time Robin woke up crying, but you two…I just want you to make it all worth it."

"How can we possibly do that?" Emma asks. "How can we possibly make ten years in prison, Hook's death –" she swallows and shakes her head, refusing to let Zelena push her down that path before she's ready to go there. "Everything this town has been through and what Regina was forced into, how can anything possibly be worth that?"

"You make sure we win," Zelena says softly. "You prove that the Black Fairy didn't." She shakes her head. "I hated all of you for so long. I hated Regina because I thought that she had everything I ever wanted. And then I saw how difficult every day was for her. How it was a fight for her sometimes to wake up in the morning and to not just surrender. We always see her as a fighter but when she was going against the Queen, I saw how tired she was. And I thought, I know that feeling. I feel it all the time, too."

"Me, too," Emma admits.

"But I also saw why she kept fighting. I saw her much she loves this…family of ours. And how much it loves her back. I saw how strong it could make her in the worst of times." She smiles brightly, for a moment amazed by her own words. "I saw how much she loves her son. And you, Emma Swan. And I thought…I wanted that, too. And then, then I just wanted to be someone she looked at with that much adoration. And she did. I'll be damned if I'm willing to lose her again. Whatever it takes, we have to do something."

"She's in bad shape," Emma tells her. "I think she's struggling to reintegrate…everyone."

"Then we help her."

Emma looks down at her glass, and then back up, shaking her head in amazement as the honesty of the answer she's about to give hits her. "I'm afraid of failing her again."

"So am I," Zelena agrees. "But when that bloody fairy returns, she's not going to play anymore games. She's not going to cast more curses. And we don't stand a chance –"

"Without Regina," Emma finishes.

"Without all of us. It took me one hundred and thirty-four return trips to Storybrooke to figure that out, but there's no way out of this hell for anyone unless it's together."

"This won't be easy," Emma tells her.

"When is anything ever easy?" Zelena shoots back, her eyebrow lifted in statement.

"Point taken," Emma agrees with a weary sigh. "I'll…keep pushing."

"For what it's worth, I believe that you would have eventually rallied yourself back into this fight, anyways. You're not anymore capable than she is of giving up no matter what the two of you think. Eventually, she'll fight back, too. It's who you both are. No matter how tired and broken you think you are – you always have to try to make a difference."

"We're not the same as before." Emma contests. "We're not as strong as we were."

"I have to believe you're wrong. Wrong about you – wrong about her. Because if you're not, we're all damned," Zelena says, her voice so terribly soft. She stands to leave.

"When did you get so wise about all of this?" Emma asks after her. "So calm?"

"When I realized it was my job to project Regina's family in her absence. _My_ family."

Her footsteps echo as she leaves, and then it's Emma and the glass of whiskey.

A thousand thoughts in her mind.

Emma thinks about how she'd risked everything to get Regina and Henry home.

To bring their family back together.

To make everything right.

To…make it all worth it.

Maybe nothing ever really can, but she knows that she has to try.

Zelena is right: it's all she knows how to do.

 _ **:D**_


	16. Thirteen

**A/N:** As always, sorry for the delays. Thanks for sticking with me!

 **Warnings** : Non graphic scenes involving marital rape (involving Trev and Leopold), mental illness and domestic abuse as well as language. This is moving into the really intense stage of dealing with the fall-out and there are a lot of grim things which have to be dealt with. If these topics are ones which are hard for you - if self loathing and a very fractured mental scape is - it might be time (alas) to leave this story. Otherwise, enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

* * *

 _ **Before**_.

"Henry," Snow exclaims as she opens the door to her eighteen-year-old grandson. "What a pleasant surprise." Her drowsy half-asleep toddler finally settling down for an afternoon nap against her shoulder, she steps out of the way to permit Henry to enter. "What brings you by today?"

"I wanted to talk to you about my mom," Henry replies as he passes by Snow. Entering the foyer of farmhouse, he glances around, recognizing the furniture and the pictures, but feeling oddly...ill at ease here. He understands why his grandparents had chosen to move here, and he gets why they'd chosen to retreat from public life, and it's not like family get-togethers have become less (probably more, actually) but this place doesn't have the same warmth and safety that the loft had once had. It doesn't have the same sense of adventures undertaken. The reminder of battles fought together and _always_ won together.

"Which one?" Snow prompts, shutting the door behind him and following him into the kitchen. Like the presumptuous teenager that he is, he immediately starts rifling through her pantry, looking for something to stuff in his mouth. "I can cook you something if you're hungry," she suggests, smiling affectionately at him, watching as he haphazardly reorganizes rows of boxes.

Knowing exactly how he's going to respond.

"Not really hungry," he shrugs as he pops open a box of cheese crackers and starts munching on them. "And Mom. Regina. I mean, I worry about both, but –"

"More about her," Snow allows, because she's spent decades of her life worrying about Regina. Which isn't to say that she doesn't fret nearly nonstop about Emma, but well, things are going really well for Emma these days, she figures. Emma has a wonderful marriage to her True Love and all of the storybook ideals which Snow has always dreamed of for her little girl. Or so it would seem, anyway. But those aren't thoughts for now, and they're certainly not ones she would ever share with Henry, anyway (besides, she's wrong, anyhow - certainly). Her head slightly tilted, she asks Henry, "Why? What's worrying you?"

He shrugs. "I'm just…I just…maybe I shouldn't go away to college."

Snow's eyebrow leaps into her hairline. "That's –"

"Something neither one of my moms will go for. I know. I mean I know what they would say - what Mom would say - and it's probably the same thing you're going to say. That this isn't something I'm supposed to be concerned about. Because she'll be all right."

"Yes, yes, she will. Regina has –"

"All of you. I get it." He sighs impatiently, wanting to let her know that he's thought all of her objections through, already. Considered every word she'll say. "But…things have changed."

"For the better."

"Sometimes, I'm not so sure of that."

"Explain," Snow insists, reaching over and taking the box of crackers from him. She steers him over to the kitchen table, and pushes him down into one of the chairs before putting a now sleeping Neal down on the couch and covering him with a blanket. Turning back, she places the crackers back into the pantry, and then makes her way over to the stove, grabbing a frying pan.

"You live here now," Henry replies as he watches her. "All the way…away from the rest of us."

"Henry, Storybrooke isn't that big of a town. It takes me five minutes to get into town, and it's only ten minutes to get here from her house and vice versa. I had lunch with her just two days ago," Snow reminds him as she starts cracking eggs open and dropping them into the pan.

"Yeah, you two met to talk over a street fair. Town business."

"We had a family dinner last Friday."

"And she will always come for those, but… you know that she's not going to just stop by to visit. She has it in her head that…"

"She thinks she's a third wheel," Snow concludes.

"Yeah. Especially with Hook and Emma."

"You know what Emma would say to that."

"She would say it's not true. I know. But I also know it doesn't matter if it isn't true to us, it is to her. So she'll come when invited, but not –"

Snow turns towards him. "I get it. I do. Henry, I adore your mother. I have my entire life. Even when we were at war, I loved her. In a kind of twisted way, but all the same. I'm not going to let her be alone. And she's not alone. She's not. She has Zelena, who will always be there for her. And…she has Emma." She holds up her hand to stop his protests. "I'm aware that things have been occasionally…strained between your two moms ever since Emma got married." She frowns at her own words, her eyes for a moment growing glassy, like there's a curious thought nudging at the back of her mind. A shake of her head pulls her back to the present, and Snow continues with, "But she still has Emma, who we both know would do anything for her."

"She'd be pissed if she knew I were here talking to you about this," Henry admits.

"And probably a little hurt. She's fiercely independent –"

"Too independent. She hides. You know that."

"I do. But I also know we're not going to let her. And she would be horrified if she knew you were considering not going to college because you thought that she…couldn't handle it."

"She can handle it; she always does. For better or for worse," Henry says quietly. "I'm just not sure she should have to. I guess I'm just…tired of her being alone and not having anything or anyone to make her happy. It sucks."

"You love her; worrying is normal," Snow states, and it's as much agreement as she dares to provide him. These are sentiments that she has shared with David more than a few times. Regina would hate knowing that they were wondering and worrying about her, of course, but it's hard not to. Snow meant what she'd said to Henry; she really has adored Regina her whole life, and she hates seeing her alone. Still, Snow insists, "Regina is going to be all right. I promise you, she will be. She may not have a romantic partner, but she has a town to run and a hundred other things to do to keep us all safe. Believe it or not, I think she gets a tremendous amount of fulfillment out of that." She smiles as she considers just how far they all have come and how much has changed since Regina's days as the Evil Queen. "And when she doesn't have that, when she just needs someone to have dinner with…or whatever, she still has your other mother and me and your aunt, and we will always be there for her." She crosses back over to him and places a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. "Now eat up."

"Grandma –"

"We're a family," Snow reminds him solemnly. "Good or bad, we take care of each other."

She leans down, and kisses him on the top of the head, one of her arms sweeping around him.

Quietly, calmly certain.

Confident that nothing can ever tear this family of theirs asunder.

* * *

 ** _Now_.**

"Henry," she breathes, eyes bright and warm. He finds it somewhat strange for him to look at her now - looking so very similar to the last time he had seen her – the result of the Black Fairy trapping everyone left behind in Storybrooke in repeating cycle of nothingness, doubt, and anxiety – and realizing how much pain they have both been through while they had all been separated. How he'd grown up, lost his family, created a new one from the debris of that loss, and then had to struggle through loss once again, one that had taken him to a very dark place.

Only to be back home now.

They're all home now.

And here he is, his daughter at his side, her hand in his, and he's staring in the green eyes of his grandmother. So full of love for him. Gazing at him with uncertainty, trying to feel out the man that life has made him. Trying to figure out what ten years of loss and pain has done to him.

He'd like to know the answer to that question, too.

"Dad," Lucy says from beside him. "Are you all right?"

"I'm…I'm fine." And then he's looking back up at Snow. "Hi, Grandma."

Snow doesn't hesitate after that, jerking forward in one grand motion and wrapping him into her arms. She's smaller than both of his mothers, but her hold is ferocious, as strong and fierce as he remembered it to be. "Oh, Henry. Henry, Henry, _Henry_."

"I know, Grandma," he tells her, feeling the emotional rolling off of her in waves, understanding it all too well – this wistful bittersweet joy of this. "I know." He steps back from her, and points towards Lucy, beaming as he gazes on her, realizing just how much she is his everything. Just how proud he is of her. He thinks if he has done nothing else right in this world, then she's more enough. "You all kind of met last night, but everything was so crazy, and…this is my little princess. This is my Lucy."

"Hi, Lucy," Snow says. She doesn't kneel like his mom used to, but she smiles so warmly and authentically that Lucy's immediate response is to grin back at her. "It is very nice to meet you."

"You, too," Lucy says brightly. And then promptly launches into why they're here (or at least why she is). "My dad is super scared about both of my grandmas and needs a hope speech."

"Lucy!"

"Dad," Lucy scolds. "You told me you knew exactly who could help make this better."

Snow chuckles. "Not a bad thing to hear, Henry; both of you, come in. David is walking the town –" she smiles thinly, humorlessly at that before quietly explaining. "We always do that right afterwards just to ensure everything is where it's supposed to be. Sometimes, it's not."

"What do you mean?" Henry queries as they settle on the couch. It's nice to be here, back in the loft instead of at the farmhouse. It feels stronger, more familiar and more powerful to him.

He admits – at least inwardly – that such thoughts might be the melodrama of a writer.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now. If the curse truly was broken as we believe, then there's no reason to suspect that any further damage has been done. Or will be done," Snow assures him, smiling at Lucy again, aware that these are words a child shouldn't hear, but also knowing that with everything the people in this town have gone through, she'll hear much of it.

Especially considering that both Regina and Emma are struggling with the aftermath of their traumas.

"That's good, at least," Henry responds, fidgeting in his position on the couch. He knows that he really should go see his other grandfather – the one who appears to be mysteriously still locked away in his house, either by choice or force – today, and see if there's any answers there, but the anxiety inside of him is screaming, and the only thing he thinks he'll find is more pain.

More loss and more heartbreak.

More than he can handle.

His mind drifts, and he thinks back on days when it'd been too much, days when only disappearing into some kind of haze made anything and everything seem tolerable. Thoughts that are always followed by shame – dark and ugly, as he looks at Lucy and remembers.

Remembers how much he'd let her down – let everyone down.

"Bad places, Dad," Lucy murmurs, her hand in his.

"And we have all been there enough," Snow states, suddenly in front of him. "Talk to me."

"I'm worried," Henry confesses, and then looks at his daughter with sadness. Because these are words a child should never hear their parent say. Hadn't his own mother hidden it better?

No, actually, she hadn't.

Oh, she'd most certainly tried to shield him from her misery, but he'd known, and perhaps that's what he finds the most unsettling right now – she's not really trying to hide it at all.

"So am I," Snow admits. She reaches out and brushes a wisp of hair out of Lucy's eyes, her fingers trailing lightly down the little girl's cheek as she confirms for herself that this is real. That her family really has been returned to her – different, but real. "The curse might be broken, and we might be all back together again, but there's a lot of…terrible hurt still to be mended."

"How do I help them?" Henry asks her. "How do I help anyone?

"We don't give up on them," Snow replies. "Both of them are used to people doing that. Regina might even think she wants that right now, but that's not how this family operates, Henry."

"They're good words," Henry notes, and thinks like he's somehow letting her down by not immediately believing that everything will be okay, simply because she's assuring him of such.

She smiles knowingly at him. "Lucy, honey –"

"I've heard so much about this loft," Lucy announces, standing up and flashing both of them an indulgent grin. "I want to see it." And then she's heading towards the stairs, her steps loud.

"Smart kid. Like her daddy."

"Like her momma," Henry corrects.

Snow tilts her head, reading the muted but still present grief in his eyes. "Her mom –"

Henry shakes his head. "It's a long story. Not a good one." He pauses for a moment, thoughtful as he adds, knowing that his grandparents still don't know many of the details of what his two mothers had experienced while outside of Storybrooke. Knowing that they still don't know exactly what had happened to Killian. "Seems like none of them are. We've lost too much."

"Then it's time to stop the losing," Snow announces. "You might not believe in hope, anymore, Henry, but you came to me to help you find it again. You came here because you had faith that I could give you a reason to believe that we will find a way to get through this. Well, we will."

"Because it's what we do?"

"Yes, but also because we have come too far to let that dirty bitch of a fairy to destroy us."

Henry snorts, practically choking on his surprised laugher. "Damn. I'd expect that from mom." Almost immediately, the mirth falls away. "I mean, if she were herself instead of…whatever is happening to her." He frowns. "I don't know what's happening to her. I don't understand."

"I do. It's kind of what all of us went through after her curse broke, but so much worse. Different voices, different personalities. Ours weren't who any of us wanted to be, and they were strange and wrong, but I get the feeling that this one was…worse than that?"

"Yeah. Elizabeth was…not who Mom would want to be," Henry answers cautiously.

Because in the end, how much anyone knows about Elizabeth is Regina's choice to make.

"Give her time," Snow assures him. "What they've been through, what we all have been through since she separated us – this isn't like Regina's curse where it was just loneliness, as terrible as that was. This is something sadistic about this…well, we've all been hurt. Some of us worse than others – I have a feeling that your mothers suffered the brunt of her anger."

"And Hook."

"When the time is right, you'll tell me?"

"If she can't and she'll allow me to," he agrees, having a pretty good idea that this is a story which Emma will always struggle to tell.

"Fair enough," Snow murmurs, a thousand dark thoughts in her mind. "Well, we'll deal with that when we have to. For now, we deal with the hurt in front of us. And we find a way to move forward from it."

Henry nods, tears in his eyes as he considers his own losses, and the pain both of his mothers have been through. As he considers a decade of life lived inside a churning blender of sorrow.

"Because hurt can heal, Henry. Hurt can fade. Regina's has before. Emma's, too. Yours will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm sure because a very long time ago, a beautiful girl on a horse saved me from certain death. And then, because life can be cruel and horrible, and bad choices were made, she went away for a while, and still…eventually, she came back to me. To herself. She will do that again."

"And Emma?"

"I lost her for a long time, too. And then she came home to me - to us - as well. Your mothers stories, they're so alike, constantly intertwining, constantly...running along the same paths. But in the end, what I always think about is how even through the darkest of times, we have always found our way. I have to believe that's meaningful. I have to believe that's…that's our story as a family. Because it is. It is."

Her arms circle him again, and then his arms go around her.

And he _holds_ on.

* * *

 _ **Before**_.

She'll be nineteen in three days.

Tonight, Regina is an eighteen-year-old virginal bride. A newly crowned Queen.

One who is shaken, frightened, and trying to find strength somewhere inside of herself.

She misses her mother desperately. Regrets having pushed her through mirror.

And right now, she very much regrets having followed Rumplestiltskin back to the castle in the desperate hope of learning enough magic to find a way to resurrect Daniel.

Oh certainly, she would have been hunted down by the King's men had she continued running, but maybe she'd have gotten away. Maybe, if she had ridden fast enough, she could have –

The door to the suite opens, and Leopold enters.

Happily drunk as he takes in his new bride.

She swallows, and thinks about words her mother had told her weeks ago. "It will hurt, darling, but then the pain will be over, and the future and all of its promise will be in front of you."

Oh, but she doesn't want this promise. Doesn't want this life.

She just wants Daniel.

She wants peace in a quiet little house somewhere deep in the country, overlooking water and trees. The sound of horses, and maybe children. Laughter and tears, and an ordinary life.

She wants simple and she wants love, and this is neither of those things.

"You're afraid," Leopold says, his hand on her face. His fingers are rough, calloused from nights spent out on the cold plains with the other lords, their hands gripping their bows as they hunt.

"No, my Lord," Regina says automatically, because despite which sound understanding, his eyes aren't kind. They remind her of her mother's when the answer expected is anything, but the truth. She knows her role here. Knows the expectations, and what he desires from her.

Both physically and orally (and this thought makes her stomach roll violently).

"Good," he murmurs, and then he's kissing her; he tastes like wine that is far too rich and cigars that are way too potent. The mixture is revolting, and she has to force herself not to flinch and back away from him. She doesn't need Mother to know that such a reaction would be wrong.

And if she is to survive long enough to bring Daniel back, she must be _right_.

Do _everything_ right.

So she closes her eyes, and doesn't fight him as he undresses her, and pushes her backwards.

He whispers instructions to her, and she stammers out, "I don't –"

"You'll learn," he tells her, and she does.

She bites her lip when he pushes inside of her, and he licks the trickle of blood away before shoving his tongue into her mouth, insisting on claiming every part of her as his. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright as he looks down at her, not seeming to notice how dull hers are.

He tells her that she's "good" and her skin crawls with every one of his touches.

When he's done with her, he calls her, "Wife," and expects her to be proud of the term.

She bows her head, and clutches the sheet to her, lest he sees the tears on her cheeks.

It'll be years before she declares she will never bow to him again; years during which she _learns_.

* * *

 **Now.**

There's cold air on her face – the breeze coming off the ocean as she sits on one of benches facing the water. She'd come here straight from her office, departing it shortly after Emma had left her (she tries not to think about that – tries not to think about how seeing Emma walk away hurts her because she'd told her to go, and it's all for the best for all of them to get clear). She doesn't know how long she's been out here – measuring time only by the thinning out of the pack of cigarettes that she currently has clutched tight in her left hand. Half a pack down so a few hours give or take, she thinks darkly, blinking lazily as she stares out at the water.

Her mind is a mess and she knows it – so many colliding thoughts and images.

So many voices that never stop and unwanted touches that make her skin crawl.

She can feel his hands on her. Feel his fingers pressing into her, his mouth on hers, teeth pulling at her lip. She can feel him inside of her, his weight pushing down on her, sweat dripping down.

She gasps, a small whimper of protest breaking free before she can stop it.

Condemning herself for her weakness, she demands silence and stoicism; don't break visibly.

Mother would expect better.

"Mother's not here," the Queen whispers. "You have to be the strong one."

"I can't," she breathes out, her fingers white at the knuckles.

Eyes closed, the images start coming sharp and fast, and then they're blending together.

Leopold and Trevor; one holds her down, and the other rises up over her.

"My wife," Leopold calls her, and she wants to throw up.

"Good, Lizzie, good," Trev tells her, and her nails dig into the soft flesh of her palm.

"Just be a good girl, and it'll be over soon, then you can have some air," Elizabeth whispers.

"Stop him," the Queen growls. "Be stronger."

"I can't," she says again. "I can't, I can't…"

The pictures merge and merge and merge, and she sees other faces.

Graham. Robin. _Emma_.

She takes Graham, and her stomach rolls as the reality of her actions strike her.

Her hand settles on her chest, and her fingers turn inwards like she intends to go for her heart – perhaps rip it from her chest, and turn it and her into the nothing she's meant to be.

"No, sweetheart, no," Robin pleads with her, and then he's falling, falling, _falling_.

And then Emma is stepping in front or her, a door against her back, and the walls of a hotel room around them as they kiss, soft and tender, and she thinks _maybe_ , but then there's black dust swallowing her, and when it clears, all that's left is Henry staring at her in horror.

He says, "Who are you?" and she tries to answer, but the words catch in her throat.

She places her hands over her eyes, the heels pressed against her eye-sockets as she rocks herself back and forth. She says, "Stop, stop, stop," but they never stop. No one _ever_ stops.

"Regina."

She snaps around, fire in her palm, and immediately cries out, doubling over.

A hand touches her back, and she recoils from it, even as she struggles to –

"Hey, easy," she hears. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

They're strange words – unfamiliar ones that she struggles to believe.

Because Leopold believed that the best way to control her was by caging and restraining her.

And because Trev's hand is hard, and the ground beneath her knees is even harder.

Her fingers lift to her neck, where she can still feel his fingers pressing into her throat even if the marks are gone. Her ribs ache on cue, and she remembers that disgusting alley.

Too many alleys.

She thinks about running away from hope in one a very long time ago, thinks about seeing Killian dying in another as a cursed Emma had run past her, and then…she sees Trev.

Holding her against the wall.

Choking the life from her.

While she'd done nothing to stop him.

"You tried to fight back," Elizabeth says dully. "Where did that get you?"

" _Home_ ," the Queen shoots back, and it's Elizabeth she's trying to chase away.

Elizabeth says softly, "We're just trying to survive," and the Queen backs away.

All of this in her mind, and she wonders if she must look mad to everyone else.

But then, perhaps she is…

"You're safe," she hears again, and realizes that she's still bent forward, still gasping.

The hand settles on her again, but strangely light, just barely touching her.

"I'm not," she answers, and Trev has her up against the wall in their house, his hands around her throat, his face red with anger. He stares at her for a moment, and then violently kisses her.

She jerks back, and away – not from Trev, but from the hand on her back.

From –

David.

Curled against the edge of the bench (she forces herself to remember how she'd gotten here, and thinks about an ambling stumble from her office to here – a dozen eyes on her), she retreats from him, her face flushing in shame as part of her mind recognizes her weakness.

"I'm fine," she says automatically, and knows she's never looked less fine.

But David, sweet David who reminds her so much of Emma, smiles kindly, and says, "You are."

"Then…then go." Because if they're too close, they can only be hurt, and _why_ won't they go?

"If you want me to," he says, and she notices that he's sitting next to her on the bench.

Not directly next to her but close enough that he can touch her.

Or retreat.

"Go," she murmurs. "I don't want –"

She stops, then, because she doesn't know what she wants.

Not to feel like this.

"You've shivering," David notes. He strips his jacket away, then, and holds it up – meaning to place it around her, but sensing that she has to be the one to allow such physical contact.

"Not cold," she murmurs, and she is, but anything and everything is an opening.

And God, how many times does she have to burn all of these people down for them to stop?

Stop trying.

Stop offering their arms to her.

Stop trying to give her hope that will eventually turn to ash?

"Okay," he agrees, and puts the jacket down beside her. "Do you want to talk?"

She shakes her head and finally looks at him, her lip curling into a snarl that's more acting than actual anger towards him. "How did you get put in charge of the hope speech, Charming?"

"I was walking by, and I saw you," he replies, smiling slightly, so honest that it aches. "I thought maybe you could…use an ear? Or a shoulder. Whatever."

"What's there to say?" she asks angrily as she plucks up the pack of cigarette, yanks one out in a practiced fluid motion, lights it up. "I'm a fucking mess, and everyone knows it."

"You're Regina Mills –"

"No, no I'm not!" She laughs, the sound dangerous sharp and bitter. "You don't know who I am, anymore, David." Her chins lifts as she picks up the pack of cigarettes and shows it to him. "I'm not Regina. I'm not the Queen. I'm a fucking chain smoking waitress who kneels before a man, and does what he tells her to do when he tells her to do it. No matter how _filthy_ it is."

She expects him to recoil from her words – even Emma would – but he doesn't.

He says quietly, "I'm good at listening. Like I said, ear or shoulder; I'm here for you."

"You're my enemy," she reminds him, and then frowns because the words seem wrong.

She hears Elizabeth say, "We don't know him. Don't…"

The Queen snaps back, "Of course we know the shepherd! We…trust him." Grudgingly.

She takes a hard draw off her cigarette, eyes wild and unfocused.

David replies kindly, "Not for a very long time, Regina. Not ever again."

"No, no you're not, are you?" she echoes, and then suddenly she's leaning in and with one hand touching his face, she kisses him hard on the mouth, the intensity of it overwhelming and almost desperate. For a moment, he's too stunned to move, but it's the bitter taste of alcohol and tobacco mixing together against his lips that brings him out of his shocked stupor.

"Regina, hey, no," David states, a hand on each of her shoulders as he breaks away and gently pushes her back, still gingerly touching her as he does so. "You don't want to do this, okay?"

"You don't know what I want," she growls as she breaks away, her hand lifting to her mouth.

"Then tell me."

"Nothing you can help with. Nothing anyone can." She turns to face him, then, and he thinks he sees both fear and sadness in her terribly dark eyes. "Do you remember when I got married?"

"From a distance," he returns. "I was…younger than you were. Still out on the farm. I remember hearing about it, but I was in a different kingdom, and –" he smiles sadly. "It wasn't my dream."

"It wasn't mine, either," she retorts. "I hated that disgusting… bastard. Every time he looked at me. Every time he touched me." She rises to her feet, and starts pacing around, a hand settling on her wounded ribs, her body slightly bent in pain even as she jerks it around. "To everyone around, he was kind and decent. Fair. But to me, he was cruel and brutal. He _owned_ me."

"Regina," David cautions, because he knows how horrified she'll be later when she realizes how much she's told him about a history she probably hasn't even talked to Snow or Emma about.

She blows out smoke, and then tosses the cigarette away in disgust. "Too hard to hear?"

"I can hear whatever you need me to hear," he insists. "Or if you just need a hug –"

She laughs bitterly. "You people really do think that's a fix to everything, don't you?"

"I don't know about other people," he admits, "But I've found sometimes having someone to hold onto can go a long way in making the nightmares…be quiet for a few hours."

"What do you know about nightmares?" she snaps back.

"Not as much as you do," he allows. "But the last ten years –" he looks away.

"Was horrific," she looks down at her hands. "I'm sorry. More than you can imagine," she says, her voice softening and then cracking. Finally collecting herself, she adds, "But I'm no one anyone should hold on to. In any way."

"Regina –"

"I'm not safe, Charming. No one around me is." And with that, she turns and walks away.

He rises up almost immediately, meaning to follow after, but then stopping. Wondering what he could possibly offer that he hasn't already. Knowing he's not the one she needs her.

His phone rings, and he looks down and chuckles dryly, because fate is strange sometimes.

Think about someone and, well –

"Emma," he says, smiling as he answers the voice. Realizing in a burst of emotion that he really is talking to his baby girl again.

"Hey, Dad." A pause, and then, "You okay?" Behind her, he can hear music and talking.

"I am. Where are you? I hear music?"

"At the Rabbit Hole. I needed – it doesn't matter. I just needed –"

"A breath. I get it." He smiles to himself, then says, "You kept your old phone number."

There's a quiet pause, and then Emma replies, "I didn't for a long time." There's clearly more to the story, but she's not giving up and so he doesn't push, thinking of the many ways in that his daughter and Regina are too much alike – both of them so very damaged by their lives.

"I missed you," he tells her, and it's not what he should be saying, but it's what he needs to say.

He hears her inhale sharply, emotion catching her voice before, "I'm right here now."

"Thank God," he says as he absorbs the sound of her voice – one even he'd almost given up on ever hearing again. No one wants to talk about just how difficult it had been to hold onto hope every time they were pulled back into nothing only to reappear and realize it, but…it had been.

Seeing Neal not age, fear on his face as he'd tried to understand his parent's fear.

Both he and Snow wondering where half their family had disappeared off to.

Now they know, and there's still so many ugly stories left to be told.

So many dark secrets left to be whispered.

He sighs, and says, "So not that I don't love hearing your voice, but –"

"I'm looking for Regina. She's not with Henry and she's not -"

"She was here. With me."

"Here being?"

"The docks, sorry. I found her out here when I was…walking around. We kind of…talked for a few minutes if you want to call it that."

"Yeah, she's…she's not quite herself. I guess that's the best way to put it."

David tilts his head in acknowledgment of that, looking down the road where Regina had stumbled off, her wounded body slowing her desperate departure. "That almost feels like an understatement. I haven't seen her this… all over the place since she was the Evil Queen."

"She's not dangerous, Dad. Just…really scared," Emma insists, her tone grim and brittle.

"Scared has a habit of becoming dangerous," David tells her. Before she can protest, he insists, "I'm not judging her. I care about the same thing you do – putting our family back together, and Regina is part of that family. All I'm saying is, this isn't something we can fix in one night. "

"None of us can be fixed in one night," Emma says darkly, her voice tinged with something that sounds a whole lot like heartbreak. And not because, he thinks grimly, of the loss of Killian, however that had happened. "But I have to try. Because something bad is coming."

"I know. I do. It's just…I think if you push too hard too fast…it's not healthy for her. Or you."

"Neither is doing nothing. I tried to pull back, but Henry, Zelena, they're right, Dad; Regina's spent most of her life dealing with her traumas all by herself, and where has gotten her?"

"I'm not arguing that, but Emma, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Emma."

She lets out a breath, the sound rattling over the phone line. "Okay, yeah, I'm…I'm not fine. That's obvious, right? I'm miles from fine." She laughs shortly, harshly. "My back is killing me, and my head is pounding, and I feel like I'm this giant ugly ball of anxiety just waiting to come undone, but we have a war approaching, and we all know that we don't win that war without Regina and me being strong together. That's how this goes. It's how it's always gone."

"As long as you know that you're allowed to hurt, too."

"And you? Are you and Mom allowed to hurt?"

"Baby Girl, we do hurt," David answers, his voice trembling with emotion. "For everything we couldn't make better for any of the people we love. For Regina. For Neal. For you, Emma."

Emma inhales sharply, raggedly, and then says, "We first get through this, and then all of us can get better together. We can help each other get better, I think. God, I sound like a Charming."

"You do. I love you. And for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. Even if only for surviving."

"Hold that sentiment until we defeat that fairy bitch," Emma suggests.

"No," he counters. "Because it wouldn't matter; I'm proud of you, Emma. _Always_."

She just nods her head, unable to say anything in return because the truth is that accepting love has always been difficult for her. And the last time she was able to, hadn't she thrown it away? No, she knows it's more complicated than that, just as her feelings are.

Feelings for –

"As far as Regina," David returns to, and yeah, _her_.

"I'll give her tonight," Emma concedes. "She's had a rough day; we all have. But tomorrow –"

"Just be careful. Let us…let us _all_ help if we can."

It's a reminder of a decade ago when they'd all been so helpless, and how they can't be again.

"I promise," she assures him.

"I really did miss you," he says again, and he's smiling through tears, through sadness and joy.

"Me, too, Dad. God, me, too."

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

Henry's just a few days shy of ten years old when he asks her to tell him the truth.

"Where did I come from?"

She stares back at him, eyes wide, and he thinks she's angry, but her eyes are wet.

She stammers out, "Henry…why, why does it matter?"

It's a bizarre question, and he tilts his head. "I'm not yours," he replies.

"Of course you're mine," she answers automatically, and it's still hurt not anger.

He's seen her angry – rarely towards him, but towards others. And usually, if he's anywhere around, she retreats behind locked doors, and well, he doesn't know what she does in there. But she rarely lets him see anything. Know anything.

Right now, he wants to know.

"Where did I come from?" he asks again.

"You're my son," she tells him, and sounds almost scared.

He doesn't understand.

"No, you…you adopted me." He frowns at the word, still trying to understand it.

"No…"

"I saw the papers. In the garage…" he reaches into the back of his jeans and pulls out the cover page, practically throwing it at her, watching as she carefully unfolds it, staring at in surprise.

The color drains from her face, then, and for the first time, he actually feels fear. He just doesn't know if it's for him or for her.

When she looks up at him, her eyes are watery, but weirdly hard. She almost seems like she's shaking.

"I'm your mother," she tells him forcefully. "Me. Not anyone else. _Me_."

"Why won't you tell me the truth?"

"I am!"

"No, you're lying to me. Why? I looked up what adoption is. I know what it means. Someone gave me up. Why? How did you get me?"

She reaches out and grabs his shoulders. "It doesn't matter who gave birth to you. She didn't want you, Henry. I did. You're my son. I'm your mother. And I love you. That's all that matters."

He stares back into her dark desperate eyes, too young to see the deep fear and pain there. Too young to know just how hurt and scared she is.

Only hearing, "She didn't want you."

And feeling anger of his own.

"You're lying," he says again, and maybe he means about everything.

"Henry –"

"You're a liar, and I –" the next words come out in a rush of thoughtless feeling. "I hate you!"

He's ten years old. Ten, and he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why she falls backwards, hand over her heart, acting almost struck.

But he feels sick at his own words, and instinctively reaches out, "Mom –"

She shakes her head, "Go to bed, Henry. Go to bed."

And then she's fleeing from him, disappearing into her office, the door clicking shut.

He hears her crying. Not softly, but harsh terrible shuddering sounds. Sounds a person shouldn't be capable of making, he thinks (and later in life, he'll know what these sounds mean, and just how broken down a person has to be either in their heart or soul to make them).

But tonight, he realizes that it's not the first time that he's heard her make such a sound.

Sometimes late at night after he's heard her shouting even though he thinks she's all alone.

No, this isn't the first time.

It most certainly won't be the last.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

She comes home, and he's thankful.

He never thought he'd think such a thing about his mother, never dreamt he'd worry this way,

But it's midnight, and both he and Emma have been in a panic looking for her and…she's just come home, wincing and sore, not quite drunk nor sober. He can smell cigarettes on her, the stench of them overwhelming and cloying in a way he would never assign to his mom.

She murmurs his name, and tries to step past him, nearly falling when her shoulder hits the wall, her still very injured body folding inwards to try to avoid doing even more damage.

"Mom," he soothes, arms around her. He feels her stiffen.

"I shouldn't be here," she says inexplicably, and pushes away, disappearing into her office.

He turns and looks at his aunt, who is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blue eyes wide.

Since he got home an hour ago, they've been on the phone nonstop with Emma and with his grandparents, all of them fretting together and trying to figure out if they should go out looking for her again or give her (more) space. More space to do what, he wonders? Collapse inwards?

He thinks back to the first days and weeks and months without Alicia, and understands too well. Remembers the alcohol and drugs, and anything else that might make the memories go away.

And those – the car accident aside – had been wonderful memories he'd been running away from. Tormented by the heartbreak of losing his wife, he'd been unable to find solace in the happiness. Grief-stricken and chemically numbed, he'd been unable to look past the last terrible minutes with her to see the beauty of everything that had come before for them.

Not then, anyway.

However difficult that had been for him (impossible, he remembers) how much harder it has to be for his mom because the memories she's trying to chase away are anything but wonderful.

"Emma will be by in the morning," he tells Zelena, looking up from his phone. He'd texted her the moment Regina had disappeared into her office, letting everyone know she'd come home.

In response, Zelena towards the door, clearly wondering why it can't be her who helps her break through. She knows the why, though; Regina's gone through much over the past ten years, and even though she and Regina had become so very close in those years leading up to the curse, the cracks and breaks in Regina are ones she'd made _with_ Emma. Ones the two of them will have to help heal, as well. Her job is to be the big sister while they try to work it out.

"She'd better," Zelena says roughly. "I'm going to go check on the children." And then she's up the stairs, hands wringing, needing to see her daughter and Henry's daughter just to prove to her that everything around them still has enough light in it for them to maybe win this battle.

She's not even sure she means the one with the Black Fairy.

Pocketing his cell phone, and thus choosing to ignore Emma's anxious "Is she all right?" which is blinking on the screen (he doesn't have an answer for that, not one that isn't different than the one which they already know) Henry turns towards the office, staring at the closed door.

Hearing nothing, he wonders if she's in there, curled up into herself.

Thinking back to all the times when as a young boy, he'd just let her cry. It hadn't been his job to protect her back then – she wouldn't have received his offered comfort, anyway.

But maybe now…

Maybe?

Hopefully?

He pushes the door open, and steps inside, blinking against the darkness of the room.

"Mom?"

"Go away, Henry," Regina says tiredly, slumped in the corner of the couch. The fireplace is dormant, leaving the room cold. He sees a bottle in front of her, the glass next to it empty.

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"You should. All of you."

"That doesn't sound like us," Henry tells her, kneeling beside her. A hand reaches out to her, pauses, and then when he sees that she's watching him, and not resisting, settles on her forehead. "You're warm," he notes. "You really should still be in the hospital. Resting."

She turns towards him, her hand catching his and lowering it. "I'm not who you wanted back."

"Of course you are. Mom –" he moves slightly closer. "No matter what…God, you don't know how much I have missed you – how much I have needed you. How much I still need you."

"My little prince," she murmurs. "None of this should have ever happened. It's my –"

"No," he breaks in, his hand closing over hers and squeezing. "This doesn't…no. It's her fault. Look, I don't know all of what you went through because of her curse, but I saw enough. I remember…I saw enough to know it was bad. And I know you're…confused. But it's okay."

"No, it's not. I'm not." Tears roll down her cheek. "I wasn't going to come back tonight. I shouldn't be here. But I'm weak, Henry. And I'm afraid. Of myself. I'm so afraid. Of everything."

He wants to ask questions, to see how much she'll talk to him and tell him, but then she's curling against his arms, and he's thinking about how Elizabeth had flinched from him, and how the woman who raised him would have crawled over burning rocks before she'd do this.

Before she'd let her son be the one to hold her up.

Sure, he'd boosted her emotionally, and reminded her of all the good things both external and internal to her, but she'd never allowed him to step in front of her, never permitted him to be the one to physically support her when she'd been lagging, fighting for the strength to go on.

Even (perhaps, especially) when she'd been bleeding and shaking.

Now, her head down, she's in his arms; he tightens them around her.

"We're stronger than this," he tells her.'

"I'm not." One of her hands lifts to her temple and she taps. "They know I'm not."

"They?"

"They're never quiet," she murmurs. A short sob breaks free from her. "I don't want to hurt anymore," she says, her voice so small, so unlike anything he's heard from her before.

He makes a vow to himself, then and there, that he won't let anything ever cause her this kind of pain ever again. Life isn't so easy, and he knows this now, but he makes the vow, anyway.

He holds her until she relaxes and slowly drifts off to sleep.

Once he's sure that he is, and sure that she won't wake, he gently lifts her and carries her up the stairs. Thinking about how Emma had carried her out of the hospital just a few days ago.

"She fell asleep," he hears as he makes his way down the hallway, his mom cradled in his arms.

"Yeah; she let me hold her," Henry replies, offering Zelena a small smile.

"That's good!" Zelena says, eyes wide. Then, quieter. "Right?"

"I think so. I hope so. I don't know."

"It is," she declares, chin up, her hand on the doorknob to her daughter's bedroom.

The room belonging to the child whose very existence gives her hope.

"Okay," Henry agrees and thinks it strange that he has less hope than his aunt does. A woman who has spent most of her life devoid of it. But the last ten years…his family…his heart…

And now, carrying his badly wounded mother in his arms.

It's too much, and though he grasps at hope and calls it his own, he still has doubts about everything working out. Still wonders if they really can all survive yet again.

If his mothers can.

He gently places Regina onto the bed, and then steps back and looks at Zelena. "Now what?"

"Leave her dressed. I think…she wouldn't appreciate being touched while asleep." Her voice is grim, because even if she doesn't completely know Regina's story, she understands too much. She knows that a marriage to a man she hadn't chosen can only be a nightmare for her sister.

"Yeah," Henry agrees, and drops down to remove Regina's shoes. When he's done, he leans down to kiss her, but then stops himself.

Because her eyes are closed.

And he won't take anything else from her, even if he believes she'd allow him it considering how she'd let him hold her hand and then had curled into his arms. Still, after all that she has been through, he won't take from her what isn't consciously offered to him.

Instead, carefully, he pulls the blanket over her, and then follows Zelena into the hallway.

"She's all right?" Zelena tells him, eyes wet, her hands together, her worry so very clear.

"We'll make sure she is."

Zelena nods her head several times, for a moment too emotional to speak. When she finally does, she says quietly, "I couldn't protect her, but I tried so hard to protect everyone else."

"And you did. You did," Henry assures her. And then he's stepping forward and hugging her.

"Henry –"

"You did good," he states. Because he knows what she's thinking, feeling, and afraid of.

The same things he is.

And she needs to hear the same things he does. That what they had done or tried to do had mattered – does matter.

"I tried," she says softly, head on his shoulder.

"You did good," he repeats.

Because she had. She'd protected them, done everything she could to be strong for them.

Once he'd found his mothers, he'd tried to do the same for them.

It's gotten them here, back home, back to a place where they maybe have a chance to start again.

Where maybe they have a chance to fight back.

That is, if the two women at the center of it all can find their way back to themselves.

That is, if their whole family can find a way to come together again.

They will, Henry decides, and tells Zelena so.

She simply says, "Okay."

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

They're frightened.

The Queen, the Savior and the Pirate.

She can taste their delicious helpless fear, can feel their heartbreak as they come to understand that in a moment, everything here will be gone.

Oh, but they truly have no idea, Fiona muses, watching their eyes as the black dust overtakes them. Seeing the awareness blink from them as the curse sweeps away their minds.

She laughs as Regina struggles against the tendrils tearing apart her mind.

Laughs as an already broken marriage gets torn limb for limb.

They reach for one another, try to hold on, but there's nothing left to hold onto.

The women exchange a look, such sadness between them mixed with longing and need.

Even _now_.

As they fall apart.

Their lives reduced to ashes.

And it will still get so much worse for them, Fiona knows.

So much worse.

Her laughter fades to a –

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

\- a cruel humorless smile crosses the Black Fairy's face as she stands on the hill overlooking Storybrooke.

She'd never intended to come back to this worthless little town, had always assumed her curse would crush it forever.

Too mean, too brutal, too awful to break.

But it seems that the Mills boy had found a way to save his mothers from their terrible punishments.

The boy she'd thought little of, and paid no attention to once he'd been outside of Storybrooke.

That had been a terrible mistake; twice, he has destroyed her plans.

Twice, he has destroyed her curses.

Eyes glittering as dark as the dust she trails, she promises that there won't be a third time.

A third chance.

Not for any of them.

 _ **:D**_


	17. Fourteen

**A/N:** As always, sorry for the delays.

 **Content Warnings:** Depression, physical domestic abuse (not graphic), self-harm, references to sexual abuse, and language.

 _Major turning point here, y'all - strap in, and thanks for coming along far!_

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

"What the hell are you playing at tonight?" Trev demands, circling her. He's drunk, and angry, and every part of her is telling her that this is when she should just meekly submit to him. Apologize, make nice, and give him everything he wants.

It's what usually works, and after years of trying out everything that doesn't, she's gotten somewhat good at knowing how to keep things calm and quite, her husband appeased.

But she's tired, and frustrated, and what exactly had she done wrong here?

Helped a scared little girl? Kept her from feeling as alone as Elizabeth does every day?

So she doesn't back down – she looks right at Trev and says, "She needed someone."

"Maybe, but some dude and his kid ain't your problem. Coming home to me - that's the only thing you're supposed to worry about." His voice softens, then, like he's speaking to her as if she's a very small, very stupid child (ironic considering what they're arguing about, she thinks, darkly). "Look, I know you wanna caretake everyone, baby, but that's not what we do. We've done pretty well by just keeping to ourselves and minding our own business. Just you and me against the world. Right?"

"Trev, she was scared. I couldn't just...leave her all alone like that. I _couldn't_."

"Playing house with some brat kid won't make you a mom," he reminds her, his tone cruel and caustic. "You know that, right?"

It's a direct hit to Elizabeth's heart, a terrible reminder of the bitter truth that is her infertility. Her shoulders sagging, she shakes her head, just wanting to be away from this fight. From him. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

She starts to walk away from him, even gets a few feet while he stares at her in shock, but then he grabs her arm hard enough to bruise and pulls her back to him. Almost instinctively (though, she might argue as to where that instinct had come from) she puts her hands out in front of her to keep him away.

It's a poor choice, and his eyes widen in surprise and hurt. "What the fuck, Lizzie?"

"I'm tired, and I don't want to do this," she repeats, and forcibly shoves his hand away.

It's the wrong decision, the wrong move, and she knows it even before he reacts to her touch by slapping at her. Only he's a very big man, and when he slaps, it's more like a punch, and when he hits the side of her face, she goes down, the entire side of her face feeling like it's exploding with pressure and pain.

"We do this when I say we do," he yells. "You're my wife and you don't...we don't...we don't...God.." Looming over her for a moment, he sees the way she's folded into herself, and his eyes widen as he realizes what he's done to her – again. "Baby," he says. "God, Lizzie." He reaches down and grabs her by the forearms, meeting no resistance as he pulls her to her feet. His voice practically breaks as he looks at what he's done to her, as he sees his mark. "You're my wife," he says again before kissing her hard.

Like sex can somehow make the violence fade away.

Only, it's all the same these days.

She wants to resist, thinks to resist, but she can barely see now, and what's the point.

He's right, and this is all stupid.

She'd brought this on herself, all of it.

It's not like she hadn't known it would come to this when she'd ignored her husband's calls. When she'd gotten immersed in the life of Henry and Lucy Mills, even if only briefly.

It'd been a mistake – one she won't make again, because yes, it's easier when she's alone.

It's better when Trev is the only person in her life – he's happier, and she's…safer.

He breaks from the kiss (and she can still taste alcohol and tobacco on her tongue, his breath soured by hours of drinking and smoking), and then leans his forehead against hers, almost conciliatory. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You know I never mean to hurt you. You know that. I love you so much," Trev insists. "I'm just trying to protect you. I can't protect you if you don't let me, _right_?"

She thinks of the many times he says that word - "right" - each of them a demand for capitulation and obedience.

"I don't want protection," she murmurs, head back against the wall, her head pounding.

"But you need it," he insists, and then he's pulling her into his arms, peppering kisses across her, his own tears splashing down her. "That's my job in this family of ours. To save you from the all the fucked up that's out there. That's my job."

"Right," she whispers.

And wonders – but doesn't dare say – as he squeezes her tight, _"But who will save me from you?"_

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

Regina wakes with a violent shudder, her wounded body convulsing violently for a few moments before she manages to get control of herself. Before she forces stillness.

Settling a hand over her chest, feeling her heart pounding erratically, she tries to chase the images from the dream away, but she can still see Trev over her, his face red with anger.

Her body aches, new and old injuries throbbing.

She can feel him on her, his hands, his body.

His anger and his desires always prominent.

His needs always dominant.

His protection always edged with violence and possession.

She rises gingerly from the bed, and staggers towards the bathroom. A sharp twist and there's steaming hot water spraying down. She undresses quickly, awkwardly, and settles into the shower. It's too hot, but it feels good, and she's reminded of how many times she had done this exact thing during her years with Trev. Washing away hours and years of feeling filthy and used.

Unable to scald his touch away, she wonders where he is now.

Wonders if he'd survived being shot.

Wonders if, even now, he's looking for her.

Panic settles hard in her belly, and forces her from the shower. Still dripping wet and naked, Regina makes her way across the room, passing by the open window long enough to notice how gray and dark the sky has gotten. Pushing this thought away (though the Queen is telling her not to, trying to warn her), she makes her way over to an antiquated laptop, one that was as stuck in time as the rest of Storybrooke. Her anxiety screaming, she impatiently waits as it powers it up, then brings up a search engine and types in: Trevor Carson – Bangor, Maine.

A newspaper article comes up, reporting the details of an escaped husband killer and her famous (for a writer) male acquaintance. Police believe they had become obsessed with and then kidnapped the wife of a local man who had been shot and nearly killed during the abduction.

The man - poor innocent Trevor Carson - just fears for his wife's safety, believing that she is too good-hearted and trusting to escape her kidnappers. He just wants his wife home where she belongs, Trev is quoted as saying from his hospital bed. He misses his Elizabeth terribly, and he's so very scared for her because that con woman and the druggie writer, they've probably done something terrible to his wife.

They've taken her away from him.

And he just wants her back with him.

Regina doesn't think, just reacts, and then her hand is slamming into the screen of the laptop, forceful, and violent, the screen shattering along with two of the knuckles on her hand.

Gasping for air and half cradling her now wounded hand, she turns around, and catches sight of her naked form in the mirror. She turns again and spots a fresh pile of clothes sitting on the dresser-top – green and black plaid pajama bottoms and a white tank-top (most certainly Zelena's, she thinks, and probably left by her, too). Pulling them on hastily, wincing as the rough cotton rubs against her reddened skin, her eyes land on a pack of cigarettes on the dresser. As she grabs the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, she sees blood dripping down from her busted knuckles – a clench of deep anxiety at seeing her blood staining the carpet – turning, she then staggers to the window. She's not thinking – not really – or she would remember how difficult it is to get onto her roof. She'd learned that lesson many years ago during her first months in Storybrooke, but apparently she's forgotten it now. Or maybe just doesn't care.

She shoves the window open and crawls out, scraping her feet against the shingles. She drops down on her knees after a moment (and the bitterness she feels at assuming this position makes her stomach flip-flop) and then onto her bottom as she scoots across, slipping only a little bit before she manages to find a place to settle. A place to look out on Storybrooke.

Her little town that has suffered so much thanks to her.

Blinking slowly, she pulls a cigarette from the pack, and slides it into her mouth, her thumb rubbing against the wheel of the lighter to start the flame. Orange and sparking bright.

Her head tilts, cigarette drooping and then falling to the ground as she watches the flames.

"No," the Queen says, understanding first. "Regina, no –"

"You'll feel," Elizabeth murmurs. "We need to feel something again."

"Then we act," the Queen insists. "Then we fight!"

"You don't understand; this is safer," Elizabeth pleads. "Let us be safer."

"This is weakness."

"Maybe, but at least we're surviving!"

"No, we're not!"

Their words merge and fade, noisy in her head, an argument between her broken pieces.

She lifts the lighter up to the palm of the hand with the busted knuckles, waits for the burn.

She feels…nothing.

Eventually, she thinks, and keeps the flame burning.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

"You think this is ridiculous, don't you, Emma?"

"I think you're not a fucking cricket," she replies tiredly, looking back at the spectacled psychologist; part of her sentence is that she has to go through anger management sessions.

Which seems exceedingly indulgent, but it's not like she has a lot of choices here.

Which is why she's sitting in a little room with couches, for once not cuffed.

Because he can help her sort through the rage that had led her to kill her husband. Maybe he can help her figure out why she'd punched the guard who'd groped her.

Or so they say.

They'd have to actually understand what had happened to help. But they don't understand, don't actually care to, and this is all just pointless.

The doctor chuckles. "No, I'm most certainly not a bug."

She winces at that, thinking of Regina.

Who is not someone she should be thinking about while talking about Killian.

Well, they know him as Brennan because they don't actually know anything.

In any case, she realizes it's probably impossible not to think about Regina when Killian comes up, because it'd had been her night with Regina that had finally unspooled her marriage. She understands now – after so much time in this terrible prison – that she and Hook had been coming apart long before the truth about her and Regina had come out. They'd been over long before she'd admitted to cheating, but that doesn't do a damn thing for her guilt.

Because in the end, she'd still made the choices she'd made.

A box she'd opened because her impatience and curiosity had gotten the best of her.

A night between friends that had turned into something far more because…

…well, because in truth, they've always been far more.

Not that any of that matters now – regardless of why it had happened (or if it was always inevitable), Killian's blood is still on her hands – literally and figuratively.

"Let's get back to talking about you. Tell me what you're feeling right now, Emma."

"Frustration," Emma admits, folding her hands into her lap. She's trying to stay as still as possible, and not only because there's an armed guard next to the door, even though she's pretty sure that all of the guards around this place have it out for her. No, the truth is that her back continues to be her biggest enemy these days, and even the slightest pull is agonizing.

So she stays still and she moves carefully, trying to avoid people and conflict and…

…and yet she's still Emma Swan, so conflict tends to find her like a faithful mutt.

"Understandable. It can be hard to look beyond these walls and see a future."

Emma just stares back at him. In no mood to humor him.

"You won't be here forever," he tells her.

"Easy for you to say. After we're done here, after I get thrown back into my comfortable dark little cell, where I'll spend the rest of tonight on edge, listening to every sound, wondering if the next time the doors open, I'm going to get my ass kicked again, you'll get to go home to your safe little house." She looks down at his hand and clocks his wedding ring. "Presumably with a wife who loves you. Or maybe she doesn't and she's screwing around on you like I was on my husband. Either way, you get to go home and curl under warm blankets, and you'll be safe."

"We all make choices," he tells her, so patient and calm. So patronizing. "I'm here to help you figure out the ones you've made. But you have to be brave, Emma. You have to be willing to confront the worst of yourself to get there."

She laughs bitterly. "All due respect, Doc, which to be honest, ain't much, fuck off."

"Emma –"

"No, you don't get it. None of this is what you think it is. My life isn't what you think it is. I don't have a choice in this bullshit game, and neither do you. Except not to play anymore. That's my choice." She closes down, then, pulling her legs up to her chest to show him as much.

The pain is immediate and excruciating, but she simply grinds her teeth and stares at him.

Stares until he nods to the guard, and then it's time to go back to her cell.

Time to survive another night.

Some (most) days, Emma wonders why she's still even bothering to try.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

She's downstairs with Henry – having come over early because she'd wanted to be here before Regina wakes up – assuring him that they're going to find a way through this.

He nods and offers her a cup of coffee. Reaching for it without thinking, she winces because this is the tightest her back has been since making their feverish escape.

The whole carrying Regina through the hospital, jumping in a car, and high-speed chases hadn't helped. If only she could use the magic she's feeling within herself now to help herself.

Ah, but that would be too easy, right?

"Mom –"

"Here, let me," Zelena says, coming up behind her. Her hands slide to Emma's back, and Emma jerks in the grip, still not adapted back to being touched so freely (she finds it far easier to touch others than to allow them to put their hands on her – a control thing), and most certainly not by Zelena. She gets a murmured apology and then numbing warmth is flowing into her body.

She sighs in relief, understanding that the magic is only being used as a painkiller, but no less grateful. When this is all over, she'll do something about her back.

Maybe start on the whole healing process.

But it's not over yet, and there are still so many miles to go on this journey.

"Thanks," she says, then looks over at Henry. "I guess it's time to stop stalling."

"Do you know what you're going to say to her?"

"Just try to be honest with her," Emma replies. "And I guess, go from there."

You mind if I go up with you. I mean, just to check on her. She was in pretty rough shape last night," Henry says, thinking about holding his mom in his arms. "I guess, I just –"

"Need to see her to make sure she's all right. I get it." Emma shrugs. "And yeah, of course." She looks over at Zelena, "What about you? Do you need…want to join us for this, too?"

"No," Zelena replies, quietly, her voice trembling noticeably. "I'm not the one she needs…or wants, for that matter." And then she turns and heads downstairs, to where her daughter is. The one person she really feels like she can still help through her nightmares.

"She feels helpless," Henry says, intuitive for a moment, wise beyond his years. In a moment, he'll return to his relentless drive forward, his need to heal his family as quickly as possible, but for now, he sees the pain around him, the cracking of three very strong and brave women.

He sees their traumas and their weary edges, their lives lived roughly and often harshly.

The writer in him understands as does the former addict.

The son in him aches.

"We all do," Emma says, darkly.

He reaches out his hand to her, fingers tangling, squeezing, reminding her how far they've already come through this nightmare. From a prison cell to a hospital room to here.

She nods slowly, understanding.

And murmurs, "Okay."

Like it means everything, like it says everything.

Like it one day might be the truth for all of them

Maybe…one day.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

The smoke clears from around him as he appears in the middle of the room. There, he finds the newly crowned young Queen sitting up the bed, curled up in a ball, her arms wrapped tight around herself, her eyes pressed closed. She's rocking back and forth, her hands clenched tightly in a death grip. Like maybe she can will everything away from her.

He knows better, knows that such things aren't possible; and at that point, there's nothing left but vengeance.

He's counting on her eventually realizing that, needs her to find that relentless pain for his plan to work.

But in this moment, there's something different on his mind.

Something different in his heart, even as darkened and crippled by malice as it is.

"Regina," he says softly, approaching her bed.

She jumps, eyes open, afraid and darting backwards; Rumplestiltskin knows a darker time will come, a time when she will sense his arrival within seconds, but right now, she's so very young.

So very innocent and her instincts haven't been honed to feel energy or magic yet.

That will change.

But this evening, magic isn't his focus.

This, the night of her wedding to the King.

"Why are you here?" she demands, voice shaking. She's dressed in a simple gown, carefully prepared to look like a beautiful innocent, if no longer virginal, queen even when she's alone and supposed to be sleeping. He thinks it rather interesting that she doesn't ask why he's in her bedroom, but then their first meeting had been here so perhaps it's not quite the surprise.

Or maybe the days' events have numbed her to such a degree that nothing is a surprise now.

That won't stay the case, he thinks grimly, and knows that his fingerprints will soon be all over what's to come. The guilt he feels at this is minimal, quashed by his need to see his son again.

That doesn't change, but what he sees tonight is something he has a need to make…better.

"Are you…hurt?" he asks.

"Do you care? Isn't this what both you and my mother wanted? Me married and positioned? Well, I am. I'm positioned exactly like all of you wanted me to be. You must be so proud."

He looks back at her, his face purposefully neutral because yes, that is what they'd wanted.

For different reasons, of course.

"Are you hurt?" he asks again.

"In no way in which you can assist," she replies. Then glares at him, "Go."

"Regina –"

" _Your Majesty_ ," she snaps. "If I'm going to be beneath him, then at least I get to keep the title."

"Let your servants help you," he suggests, because it's clear to him that she's refused all aide.

There's still blood on the sheets, and he realizes that the gown she's wearing is the one she was likely wearing when the King had come to see her. Revulsion runs through him, and he has to breathe, reminding himself that this girl is but a pawn to him, no more important than that.

"Why do you care?" she asks, echoing the question in his mind.

He laughs, shrill and loud, and if she knew him at all, she'd know it for the front it is. "Because we have so many things to do, dearie, and you being ruined by a single night isn't in my plans."

She flinches at the word "ruined", and he does so inwardly as well, thinking about how his son would turn away from him after hearing his words to the young frightened Queen.

"I'm fine," she murmurs. "I just want you to go away."

"Be careful what you wish for," he says gravely, and he doesn't just mean tonight. "But if alone is what you would like, then alone you shall be." She thinks to correct him – that's the last thing she wants – but then he's turning away from her, stopping only to say, "It'll get better."

"It won't," she says, her voice so flat, the pain she's feeling seeping into his bones.

"There are better places to be," he tells her, his back still to her. One of his hands opens and closes, nails cutting into flesh and drawing just the slightest bit of dull colored blood, a stark if chilling reminder of both his humanity and the utter lack of it. "Inside your mind. Away."

"I don't know –"

"You will." Another pause, and perhaps one more plea, "Let your servants take care of you." He lifts his injured hand and says theatrically, his own mask firmly back in place, "Our first lesson is in the morning, _Your Majesty_. Don't be late; I don't like to be kept waiting. Ever." And with a dramatic flick of his wrist, red smoke is covering him and carrying him away from her.

Away from this desolation and destruction.

She stares at the dissipating smoke, feeling sparks of anger within her.

Sparks of horror and shame.

Her fingers grip at the gown she wears – the gown meant for her husband's eyes.

Behind her, the sheets of the bed ruined with her blood.

Rumplestiltskin had been right: everything about her has been ruined.

Tears dripping down her cheeks, she's never felt more alone than she does right now.

Never felt more lost and broken.

She thinks, "Better places to be," and wonders where.

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

"She's not here," Henry says, confusion peppering his tone. He's been downstairs all morning, and he's sure she hasn't left her room since he'd brought her here hours earlier.

He's sure she has to be still here. Where else would she be, he wonders, his anxiety spiking.

Because, what if -

"Kid," Emma says suddenly, breaking him from his darkening thoughts. "You ever remember your mom going out onto the roof?"

"What?"

"Roof." She points to the open window. "There's blood on the sill. And that –" she points over towards the busted laptop on the desk, and then towards a few small drops of blood (not a lot, and not very big, his logical mind quickly inserts( on the carpet. "Suggests it came from her."

He frowns slightly, running a hand through his hair. "No. Never," he says. "I went out there a couple times when I was a teen – it's easier getting there from my room, but…never her."

"Yeah, well, things change," Emma sighs.

"I'll go," he suggests.

She shakes her head. "You asked me to help her through this –"

"Your back –"

"Is better for the moment," Emma cuts in. "And eventually, Regina is going to help me through what I'm going through, too. Because that's what your mom and I have always done for each other. Maybe not today, but eventually."

"You weren't so sure of this before," Henry reminds her. "Why now?"

"You," Emma tells him, simply, a hand gently touching his cheek. "You're the proof of every bit of what's good or right within both me and Regina. You're the proof of how we can come together. You're the one who taught me that a lot of good can come from fighting back."

"Maybe, but, you two have always been a fighter and…you become close for more than just me," he insists. "You two become…more…all on your own."

"Yeah, as time passed, sure. But we started off by putting aside our…battle with each other, because in the end, you were always what mattered most to us. Then, I guess, we found ourselves somewhere else." Her eyes grow glassy as she thinks of this, as she thinks of Boston.

As she thinks of how much guilt and anger Regina is still harboring because of that night.

How much self-loathing.

"Be careful," he pleads.

She shrugs. "If I fall and splat myself –"

"Not funny," he stops her, his voice quiet and aching.

"No," Emma admits. "Probably not." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, holding it there for a few long lingering seconds as she lets so many emotions rush over her, and then she's pulling back and dropping low, and then climbing her way through the window to Regina.

* * *

 _ **Before.**_

He's calling her name over and over as he rushes quickly to her side. Pausing only for a brief moment, he puts his hand into the open flames rising from her palm, carefully settling his hand over the hand that she had placed into the fire, as the smell of her burning flesh fills the room. "Regina," he says again, his tone sharp and frightened. He pulls her now wounded hand away, enclosing it gently within his own.

She blinks, and the flames dissipates, vanishing back into her palm as though they'd never been there at all. "Daddy?" She looks down at her hand, seeing the black seared edges around it, somehow hoping that the flames would help her to feel…anything.

Feeling the pain of the burnt away flesh; she cocks her head to the side curiously, thoughtful.

She's dazed and numb, he thinks grimly, and wonders wildly how hard it would be for them to run away. To get her away from this never-ending nightmare.

Oh, but that's impossible, and he knows it, and so he pushes these thoughts from his mind.

"Regina, what are you doing?" he pleads. "When did you start…when did you learn how to make fire?" There's unmistakable fear streaked across his weathered features, his dark eyes showing the kind of haunted fear that only a parent can truly possess towards his child. Especially a parent who has seen this kind of magic before, and knows what terribly things it almost always leads to.

She turns to face him. "I...I needed to learn how."

"Did you mother teach you?" he demands.

"No, the man that you helped me find did," she replies dully. "Rumple –"

"No!" he replies with alarm. Then quieter, "There are too many people about. If they knew –"

"They'd burn me," she replies, her voice too high, too chipper. The numbness is slipping away now, replaced by clear indications of pain, and with that pain, shock and surprise. Surprise at how far she'd gone. She'd started out just practicing her fireballs in the quietness of her own suite, desperate to master at least one of Rumplestiltskin's perplexing lessons. Then she'd become curious whether they could be dangerous to her as well. And if they were, could such pain make her finally feel something for the first time in weeks.

Something besides revulsion and self-loathing.

With a flick of her hand to make the fire grow, she had settled her other hand over it, and oh, yes, indeed, Regina had felt pain. Not much at first, just flickers of stinging warmth against the thin delicate skin of her palm. Then once the burning started, she gasped, but perhaps it was as much in pleasure as in pain. Or maybe, it's all the same for someone like her, broken and destroyed, nothing more than an expensive possession.

Rapidly changing flickers of pain, pleasure, and then nothing. Rinse and repeat.

Her life in a warped crushed little nutshell.

"We need to get you cleaned up," her father says softly, leading her back towards her bed.

"I'm fine," Regina answers automatically, the words her husband demands of her.

"Regina, you're hurt," he replies, turning around so he can try to find the supplies he needs.

"What does it matter?" she asks, turning her wounded palm over and looking at it. She looks up, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors – an image of a stunningly beautiful girl with a mangled hand – and chuckles to herself. "Ugly. On the inside and now on the outside."

"No," her father responds as he turns back with a cloth and a bowl of water. "You mustn't hurt yourself, Child." His eyes are wet, and for a moment, she feels deep regret. But not for herself.

"Daddy," she says, her good hand reaching out. "I'm all right. I'm always all right."

"I should never have sent you to that creature," her father exclaims. "This is my fault."

"He taught me how to protect myself," Regina tells him. "He's teaching me to be strong."

"You were strong!"

"Was I, Daddy?" She asks, looking up at him, her eyes wild. "Was I strong when I let Mother murder Daniel? When I let her say yes to the King? Was I strong when I said yes to the King?"

"You didn't have a choice in any of those things."

"Now, I do," she answers with a smirk that's just a shade shy of madness, and then she ignites her good hand again, watching wide-eyed as the flames dance across the smooth of her palm.

"Regina, _please_!"

She watches the flames for a few seconds before sighing, and flicking them away, turns her attention back to her damaged hand, her eyes widening as Henry places the cloth against the ruined skin, the bolts of pain causing her to finally truly recognize what she's done to herself.

Charred skin surrounding damaged tissue, her nerve endings now violently firing away.

"They'll know," she whispers, the haughty confidence sliding away from her. " _He'll_ know."

She means the King.

Her husband.

The one man who now controls every part of her miserable existence.

"I don't want to die," she says, and she's not quite sure that's the truth, but she's also not sure that it's a lie, because even if her hope for resurrecting Daniel is now long gone, perhaps if she learns enough magic, maybe she can still figure out a way to make everything better, right?

Oh, but it's insanity. All of this. All of her hope.

Because she's only been at this magic thing for a few months now, and if they come for her – if they accuse her of being a witch – there's no way that she'll be able to defend herself.

She'd just wanted to feel something…anything.

Something more than the screaming emptiness that has become her every day.

Now, all she feels is fear.

And despair so thick that it's practically strangling her.

Perhaps the numbness was better.

Perhaps you don't know how good nothingness is until it's replaced with something awful.

"Shh," her father soothes. "We'll figure this out, darling."

"How?" she asks, now just a young girl who desperately needs her father. "How?"

He lifts his hand to touch her face, smiling softly, sadly at her, "We'll call your teacher."

"Daddy –"

"I was right in what I said before; I never should have told you about that book. I never should have opened the door to him and his corruptions, but what's done is done, and he's our only hope for saving you now." Cradling Regina's maimed hand between his, he offers his daughter a reassuring smile. "Everything is going to be all right, Regina. I promise you that it will be."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she says, tears leaking down her face as she tries to echo his smile but failing terribly. "I'm not sure this matters; I'm not sure I can be saved."

"I haven't given up on you yet," Henry announces. Then firmly, resolutely, "And I never will."

She tilts her whole body towards him, her head settling on his shoulder. His arm goes around her, and she allows herself, in spite of the pain she feels, to indulge in his love for her. She allows herself to feel her father's affection, honest and true, at least for this moment. Then, with absolute certainty, her voice just barely audible, the young Queen whispers, "You will."

"No," he says again, his hand over her uninjured one, squeezing tight. "Never."

* * *

 _ **Now.**_

Two steps out, and Emma finds Regina sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over, only her pajama-bottoms anchoring her from sliding off. As Emma gingerly approaches, she notices a lighter in Regina's hand, the tiny flame of it flickering against the soft flesh of her palm.

Were they not on a roof, Emma thinks that she would have rushed to Regina – certainly, she would have called out in alarm, but thankfully, old instincts kick in and she's able to stop herself from either reaction. Instead, her hands out for balance, she continues to approach slowly.

"You know she's here, don't you? The Black Fairy," Regina states, eyes on the flame, seemingly unaware of how badly she's burnt herself; there's the faint tinge of charred flesh in the air.

"I know," Emma nods. "And we'll figure a way to deal with her. Like we always do."

"But we don't always, Emma. That's why we're here now. That's why we're like this."

"Sometimes we lose," Emma admits as she finally settles herself next to Regina. She casts a wary eye towards the hard ground below, aware that neither of them could make the fall without at least some damage. Even more aware that her back would shatter under such impact. Still, steeling her nerves, she reaches out her hands, pausing before shakily placing one over the lighter, immediately stopping the flame from searing any more of Regina's tender skin.

Regina doesn't react; but in fairness, Emma hadn't expected her to. Because some traumas aren't just teachable moments.

Some go far deeper than just stopping the burning.

"Stop," Emma says softly, even though she's got her hand around the lighter.

"What does it matter?" Regina replies, and then turns and looks at her. "Last night, our grown son carried me to bed, and he and my sister tucked me in. Like I'm a child."

"Family takes care of each other."

"Again, not always."

"We always come around," Emma insists as she looks over Regina's injured hand, observing the bloodied and badly broken knuckles. "But right now, I need you to stop hurting yourself, okay?"

"It's the only way I can feel anything," Regina answers, her voice cracking.

"With all due respect, Regina, I think you feel _too_ much right now. And that's the problem."

Regina laughs bitterly. "What do you know about how I feel?"

"I know you have Elizabeth rolling around in your head. And I know you think you _hate_ her. Because you think you should. Because she – like the Queen – is everything opposite of who you want to be. Everything opposite of everything you've tried to build yourself into. You made your peace with the Queen, but you don't know how to make the same peace with Elizabeth."

Regina doesn't reply to that, just looks out at the street, at the lights and houses.

Taking a breath, and deciding that she has to move forward here, that she has to press on and try to get through to Regina enough for her to understand that she's not alone in this – even if her understanding is surface level at best – Emma reaches for Regina's wounded hand. She pauses slightly, her own hand hovering over Regina's. "Will you let me try to help you?"

"Heal me?" Regina counters. "I mean, isn't that what this is, Miss Swan? You want to take poor pathetic Regina and try to jam all the broken pieces back together so that no one has to worry."

Emma shrugs. "I just want to be there for my best friend, Regina." She smiles sadly. "I know you don't consider me that right now, but that's what we were before…before she took it away."

"Before _we_ took it away," Regina counters. " _We_ made that choice, Emma, not her."

"We did, but…we were still friends even after that night."

Regina turns and looks at her again. "Why does it matter so much to you? Why do _we_?"

"For the same reason it mattered all those years ago – we understand each other. We're… I guess we're kindred. But even if you don't believe that, we're still family. And family never quits on each other." She looks down for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. "Okay, look, cards on the table? You know I don't particularly want to be here right now. Because my own head is a fucking mess. Because every time I move in any direction, I want to cry or scream. Sometimes both. But I'm here in spite of my back and in spite of my head, and maybe that doesn't mean much to you right now, but I need you to know that I'm here because you _are_ my best friend. You're the one person besides Henry whom I would do anything for."

Regina's eyes close for a moment. She says, "I remember him inside of me."

It feels like a non-sequitur, entirely disconnected from their current conversation, but Emma has a fair idea that too many of the demons in Regina's mind are related to the men she's been married to. Both of them against _her_ will, since one was a choice made by her cursed self.

"I remember being pushed backwards onto a bed and staring at the ceiling. I remember feeling pain, and then him touching me and saying, 'Don't cry, Lizzie,'…and Emma, those are two different events for me. One was…your grandfather –" she has to force the word out, and it takes everything Emma has not to visibly flinch – "And the other was the prick who nearly beat me to death in that alley. They're not the same event, but they are in my head now. And that's what I keep coming back to. Two decades with men who used my body. Who used _me_."

"You got away from both of them," Emma tells her. "You're free of both of them."

"Yes, now I am. Because I murdered one and you shot the other one. But Trevor is still alive, Emma. Still out there. And he wants me back. He's looking for me. Did you know that?"

"I didn't," Emma says, quietly. "But –

Regina shakes her head to cut her off. "I know that I shouldn't be afraid of Trevor Fucking Carson anymore, because _now_ I know who I am and who I've been. I'm the Evil Queen." She laughs darkly at this, not noticing the way Emma flinches in response to her words.

"But you are?" Emma prompts. "Afraid?"

"Terrified," Regina admits, then looking down at her wounded hand, she seems almost curious about it. "You know, I can feel my broken ribs and how sore and beaten the rest of me is, but I can't feel these burns. They feel like nothing. I suppose…I suppose that's rather fitting, no?"

"No, it means you're in shock. Your body has been through so much – too much – over the last few weeks, and this is just too much," Emma contests. "Please, _please_ let me help you."

"With my hand or –"

"Everything. I know…I know you don't trust me, and I get that; I screwed everything up for us by…" she lets out a resigned breath, "...giving in to what I felt for you. What I still feel for you even now."

"Don't –"

"I won't. I get it, okay? And I didn't say that to guilt you or put pressure on you. I said it, Regina, because underneath everything that happened that night is a whole lot of love for you. In every way. And this is me, and you know that love and trust have never come easy to me. You know how much I end up burning down – like my marriage. But…I still trust you, and I think there was a point when you trusted me. All I'm asking is for you to remember that and…give me a chance, because I think if we're going to have any chance to save our family, we have to…be a team."

"A team," Regina repeats. She blinks, then, tears in her eyes. "You know what I hear?"

"Where? In your…in your head?"

"Yes. Where they are. Where they always are. The Queen and Elizabeth."

"Tell me," Emma says, and reaching her hands out again, she gently takes Regina's wounded hand between hers, inspecting the busted knuckles and the burns carefully.

Waiting to ensure she's not going to violate Regina by doing something before she's ready.

"I hear them in conflict. One wants to surrender and hide, the other wants to fight back and destroy. I just want to survive, Emma, but I don't know how to anymore. I don't know how."

Emma nods, and then says once more, "Let me help you."

"I'm tired."

"I know. Me, too. I might not have all the voices in my head that you do, but I think what we feel isn't all that different. At least the just wanting to survive part. That's been my life for as long as I can remember. Even when I couldn't remember." Turning Regina's hand, she lifts up her own and allows the briefest glimmer of gold to manifest. Zelena using her own magic on Emma's back had given her the idea, and well, the truth is that this is all she can do so far – the barest minimum of magic, and maybe this won't be more than magical Tylenol, but Emma feels like it's something and hopes Regina recognizes just how much she really is trying here.

"Your magic is working again," Regina notes, head slight cocked.

"Kind of. More show than anything else, but I guess I can do this."

"White magic. Natural healing," Regina murmurs. "Of course it came back first."

"It won't be enough to stop the Black Fairy."

"No," Regina agrees, and then lifts the hand which isn't in Emma's and flicks it, like she's trying to draw a fireball into her palm. Neither she nor Emma are the least bit surprised when she instead, she whimpers in pain, her hand falling and sweat beading on her forehead as she shakes.

"Easy," Emma tells her. "Take a breath."

"She wants me to fight, and I can't do anything. Well, I can hide like Elizabeth wants, but…"

"But that's not who Regina Mills is," Emma insists, again looking down at Regina's hand. It, like the rest of her body, is not fully healed, but the healing has started, even if in feverish and frantic starts and stops.

Relatable, Emma thinks grimly, and wonders again why this struggle is hers to have.

Why is she the one trying to save Regina? The one everyone believes must?

A look down at the hand in hers, and then up at Regina's tear-streaked face, and she knows.

Because this is what they have always done for each other – pulled each other from the abyss.

"I don't know who Regina Mills is, anymore," Regina protests. She takes her hand back from Emma and cradles it against her wounded chest, her ribs healing but still so sore. "I keep trying to figure it out, and keep trying to find grounding, but then there are these –" she holds up the cigarettes. "And I remember Elizabeth so clearly. I can feel her fears and her desperation; I can hear her in my head, telling me that we should just go back home again. It's safer there."

"That's how _she_ survived."

"On her knees. Like I did when I was a young Queen. Only I'm her, too. Elizabeth."

"You keep coming back to the sexual part," Emma says gently. "Do you want to –"

"No. I don't…I don't _ever_ want to talk about _that_."

"Okay."

"You're trying so hard, and I don't understand why, Emma. I'm broken. I told you that before, and it's still true now. Maybe even more so now." She lifts up her wounded hand, evidence of her point. "Everything else – everything that happened… everything that's in my head… even everything that happened between us, it just doesn't matter anymore. My body, my heart, it's all broken and I don't know how to fix it again. I'm tired of having to. I told you all I want to do is survive, but maybe Elizabeth is right…maybe I'm tired of fighting to survive and failing."

"I get it. I do. Believe it or not, I do understand. More than I want to," Emma tells her. She looks down and then across the street, trying to draw her thoughts together. Finally, her voice almost inaudible, she says, "For ten years, I lived inside a cement box. Every day was spent trying to figure out if today was a day when someone would try to beat me to death, molest me or just remind me that in their eyes, I wasn't even human to them. Every day, I tried to figure out why I cared. Why not just let them kill me? Why not just let the Black Fairy win? You know what I figured out, Regina? It was for you. And Henry. And my parents. I know we tell ourselves that surviving has to be for ourselves, but there are times when it can't be because what you see in the mirror isn't someone you care about. Even when it's you. So you make it one more day for the people who love you. The people who want you to be there tomorrow morning."

"Even if their lives would be better without us?" Regina asks, wincing as fresh pain hits her.

Emma lifts Regina's wounded hand up again, fingers glowing again as she pushes more healing magic into the burnt skin and the busted up knuckles. "I think that maybe we're the worst judges of that. You might think my life would be better without you in it, and I might think that yours is better without me in it, but I know I spent ten years missing you; and our kid and your sister and my parents, they all spent the last ten years missing the hell out of both of us."

"I didn't know who I was for ten years."

"Now, you do. Now, I do. Look, we can't change what was done to anyone. To the people we love. We can't change our choices, and yes, it's selfish -"

"Emma –"

Emma shakes her head. "You were pissed at me – you might still be pissed at me - but you were telling the truth. What we did that night in Boston was selfish. I was selfish. I should have dealt with my failing marriage, and then, if something happened between us…but that's not what happened. We made a choice, and it was the wrong one at the wrong time, but I am done regretting it. Done regretting so damn much…I opened that box, Regina; you told me not to, and I still did it, and I have spent so much time blaming myself for that box and for that night and where has it gotten me? Where has it gotten any of us? The only one who won…was her."

"So simple."

"No, I'm just tired. Tired of being alone. Tired of being lonely. Tired of ugly empty little boxes." She looks over at Regina, hoping for some kind of reaction, some kind of understanding.

"You're not the only one tired of being alone," Regina admits. Then, as if realizing just how much she's exposing herself with such a confession, she quickly adds on, "But…it's safer."

"No, it's not." Emma gestures towards the window. "All it does is take us away from the people who want to be with us. The ones who love us. Like our son who is waiting for us inside. And downstairs? Your sister and your niece. And our –" Emma laughs. "Our _granddaughter_ , Regina."

"All people who could be hurt if –"

"If we do nothing. If we let the loneliness and fear win. I did. You did. Story of our lives. And maybe if we had all the time in the world, we could find our way out of this naturally. We could go to therapy and talk about how shitty our last ten years have been, but –" she points to the skyline. "That black cloud over there? It's not threatening rain, and we both know it; she's here, and we're going to have to face her. She tore our lives apart; we let her."

"You think we're stronger than we are. You think I am."

Emma grins, and it's strange, and almost out of place, but it's all Emma and the way she has always pushed Regina – always challenged her to be her best and strongest self. "I know you are."

"And what if the war inside of me continues? What if Elizabeth comes to the surface?"

"Then she'll protect us. Like she protected me," they hear from behind them.

Both women snap around, eyes widening as they see Henry and Lucy stepping out onto the roof, Henry's hand settled on Lucy's shoulder as he carefully guides her out onto it.

Regina starts to stand, startled, old instincts kicking in; it's Emma's hand which steadies her, and keeps her from pitching over and ending up fifteen feet below splatted into cement.

"She shouldn't be out here," Regina declares. "It's not safe!"

"She insisted," Henry tells her. "She's Swan. And she's Mills." He offers them a cheeky grin.

Emma winks at him, and then turns her attention back to Lucy. "What do you mean by what you said? About Elizabeth?"

"When dad passed out that first night, Elizabeth stayed with me. She made sure I was safe and told me it'd be okay. And when I went to see her at the diner, she took care of me there, too."

Regina's brow knits, her mind spinning, that night still so clear to her thanks to the nightmare she'd had earlier. But then there's Elizabeth in her head, quiet and yet firmly curiously resolved as she says the words which Regina then says aloud, her eyes on Lucy, "I couldn't let you be scared."

"I know," Lucy agrees.

"Exactly. Elizabeth was braver than you think," Henry offers up. "I know you don't think she was strong enough because she was with him, but she was strong enough to eventually leave him. And she was strong enough to put the needs of a little girl who needed her in front of her own."

"She always wanted a child," Regina murmurs.

"Now, she has one, and he loves her more than she could imagine; he missed her –" Henry looks up at Emma and smiles softly, "Both of his mothers more than either of them could imagine. But we're all here now, Mom. All of us. Ready to fight with you. To fight together."

"Is Zelena waiting to crawl out on the roof, too?" Regina jokes feebly.

Which makes Emma grin – because even the attempt at levity has to be a good sign.

"Not sure this roof can take another person," Emma tells her. "So how about we go in?"

"Not…not just yet," Regina says. "I need…let me have a moment with _them_."

"Them?" Lucy asks, so young and innocent, so incapable of understanding this kind of trauma.

"Herself," Henry murmurs, taking his daughters' hand, and starting to lead her back.

"She really loved you," Regina says suddenly, turning to look at Lucy, something intense burning in her eyes – something that feels like Regina, but also…not quite her. "Elizabeth, I mean."

Lucy grins. "I love her, too."

Not loved, _love_.

Said so simply, as only a child can.

Regina lets out a breath, eyes closing as the sound of scuffing tells her that Henry and Lucy have disappeared back into the house, leaving her with just Emma, the two of them side-by-side.

"Do you want me to go?" Emma asks.

"She's getting closer," Regina says instead, eyes back on the horizon. "She wants us to know that she's coming for us. Again."

"I'm ready if you are."

"We both thought we were last time. And…look where that got us."

"I know," Emma says, because anything else would be a lie.

"Do you think when this is all over, they'll be quiet?" Regina asks.

"The Queen and Elizabeth?" Going off of Regina's almost innocent nod, Emma replies, "I don't know. But maybe if we can help you find peace – help all of us find it – then maybe…maybe?"

It's not much of an answer, certainly not a definite one, and Regina has no real hope that this fight will go any better than the last one, but she's tired, tired of losing, tired of this.

Tired of feeling like she's broken, like every bit of her has been ruined by her many traumas.

"We could fail," she says. "We could lose."

"We could," Emma admits. "But I have faith in us."

"I can't do that again," Regina tells her. "I can't…" her voice lowers, sounding so small and young and so much unlike the world-weary woman who has been through all that she has. "I need to be able to say no, Emma. I can't have that choice taken away from me again. I can't."

" _We_ can't," Emma states. "And we won't. I won't let that happen again. To either of us. So if you need to tell me 'no', then okay; I'll walk away. I'll figure this out on my own…I won't force you into this fight."

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do _understand,_ Regina," Emma tells her, and ten years rushes through her mind in a single second. And then behind that, her entire history with Regina, the fights and the friendship, and the love.

Slowly, Regina lifts her good hand towards Emma's face, pausing long enough for Emma to take it and squeeze it, their eyes meeting, only honesty between them now.

"You do," Regina murmurs.

"Tell me what you want do here Regina?" Emma pleads. "What do what _you_ want?"

Regina brings their joined hands to Emma's face, and says, her voice strong, "To fight."

 **:D**


End file.
